Special Investigations Division: Uprising
by Loki's Son
Summary: The SID team gets their first official mission. Pitted against pirates with Starfleet ships, they unravel a society based upon theivery.
1. Chapter 1

12

Uprising

* * *

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek or its related properties. All such rights belong to CBS/Paramount. I own all original characters insofar as they do not conflict with previous ownership.**

**This is the second installment of the _Special investigation Division_ series. If you enjoy this one, try out _Vignettes featuring Ro Laren_ for other installments of Macen and T'Kir's adventures.**

* * *

"Ma'am," Santos spoke up from Ops, "I'm reading a Federation distress beacon." "From where?" Captain Hilde Edgars asked. "It's originating from what appears to be a freighter at the edge of our sensor range." "Helm, set course for those co-ordinates, warp 6." Edgars' ship, the U.S.S. Horta, was a Nebula-class starship. She was configured for long-range scanning operations and conducting stellar cartography update surveys of the Federation's border regions. It took nearly three hours at high warp to reach the periphery of her scanning range from their previous location. What they found was a gutted freighter. Phaser blasts had pockmarked the hull and caused several breaches. There was no power and no signs of life. Edgars sent a boarding party in environmental suits to try and retrieve the ship's logs as well as collect forensic evidence to determine what happened. They found more than they had bargained for. "Ma'am, there were still people alive when the life support failed." Amanda Witt, Edgars' First Officer reported, "The warp core didn't fail, it was shut down. Those people were murdered." Edgars eyes hardened, "Do we have any idea who's responsible?

"Someone tried to wipe the records." Witt answered, "We sent copies of everything we recovered to Starfleet Command. Hopefully they'll have better luck then we did."

Edgars gave Witt a grim smile, "In the meantime, I suggest we conduct a few 'surveys' in this area and see if we can turn up anything more."

"Sounds like a plan, Captain."

* * *

Three weeks later...

"You couldn't resist, could you?" Amanda Drake asked in exasperation. On the receiving end of her scrutiny, Brin Macen merely shrugged and fought to suppress an unrepentant smirk. Drake shook her head and released a mournful sigh. Now she knew why Alynna Nechayev had placed him under her command.

"You couldn't resist lecturing a class of Starfleet cadets on the supposed similarities between the Federation and the Dominion."

"There are quite a few similarities." Macen stated calmly, "Both societies are utterly and thoroughly convinced of the superiority and inherent morality of their respective approaches."

"You are an officer sworn to the service of that Federation!" Drake sputtered.

"Which means that I, as well as any other citizen, should have the right to analyse and critique the system I serve in an effort to improve it." He said placidly.

The cherubic innocence he projected was the most irritating facet of the conversation, "I agree _in principle_, but don't you think that posing such questions to a freshman class is a tad premature?"

"No." Macen replied decisively, "I think they should be exposed to such questions years before that point. Facing such diversity at this point is almost too late."

"But they're so young..."

"And they will soon share the responsibilities we take for granted." Macen replied, "They need to decide for themselves why the Federation is their preferred system of government, based upon their own judgement, not what they have been force-fed all their lives."

Drake resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. Arguing with a man over four hundred years old had its drawbacks. It also didn't help that Macen had seen more of the galaxy than the rest of Starfleet put together. She was suddenly grateful that most El-Aurians had avoided Starfleet after arriving in the Alpha Quadrant.

"Well, maybe it's just as well." Drake said ruefully, "I'm giving you your first assignment as a member of the Special Investigations Division."

"I thought that my group wouldn't be receiving any missions until the ship's refit was completed and T'Kir had finished her remedial training."

Drake grimaced at his words. Macen's insistence on using a fifty-eight year old scoutship that Starfleet had decommissioned six years ago frustrated her. Drake appreciated the fact that the ship gave its occupants a ready made undercover identity, but modernising it had been an annoyance. At least the engineers assigned to the task had had a field day.

T'Kir was another matter altogether. Macen's damnable refusal to have her recommitted to an insane asylum baffled her more than his attachment to the ship. Drake happened to know that the unstable Vulcan had tried to murder him on at least one occasion. Drake didn't even want to guess at what personal imperatives drove him to keep T'Kir around.

The only consolation was that T'Kir's condition had improved. Some obscure herbal concoction that Macen had recommended for her had helped her bring her telepathic abilities under heel. Vulcan specialists had been brought in as well to give personalised instructions. One of them had left after she had propositioned him. Drake could only imagine the poor man was only half as scandalised as she had been.

The Admiral grudgingly had to admit that the Vulcan was a prodigy when dealing with operational and cybernetic systems. One of the counsellors had suggested that T'Kir had been drawn to machinery since it did not produce thoughts that would then intrude themselves into her own mind. Drake didn't know where she'd gained her knowledge. She didn't care. All she knew was that the damned lunatic was good at her job!

The group's medical specialist was almost as off kilter. A doctor that dreamed of being a warrior was a guarantee for an empty sickbay. Kort's contentious nature often inflicted greater injuries to his patients than those they had arrived with. The sole consolation was that you _knew_ that any patients subjecting themselves to Kort's care were well and truly incapacitated.

Lisea Danan remained the bedrock of this eclectic lot. The Trill Science Officer Lisea Togran had been a capable scientist, but Lisea Danan had blossomed into an investigator of rare ability. Of course, drawing on the experience of eight other lifetimes would give anyone a capability boost. The key factor in the equation was Lisea herself. Her obvious unhappiness with Starfleet and her ongoing leave of absence over the last three months had been a worry for Drake.

Brin Macen was the enigma that held his unusual team together. He had even more experience than a Trill, and all in a single lifetime. His personality brought back adages of "forces of nature". That certainly helped, but what set Macen apart was that he didn't see the universe the way others did.

Some had dismissed it as more ethereal El-Aurian nonsense. Nechayev, however, put a great deal of stock in Macen's "hunches". Jean-Luc Picard had certainly been willing to fly into the maws of death trusting in Guinnan's instincts. Whatever it was, Drake had been impressed with his handling of the Gulag crisis and of his service during the Dominion War.

She also had to admit she respected his performance in the classroom. She'd had several of his lectures piped into her office and had been amused at their irreverence and audacity. Macen definitely saw the Federation in ways that wouldn't occur to a native of the Alpha Quadrant. He made students re-examine cherished beliefs and ideologies applying critical thinking to them to see how valid they seemed from an outsider's perspective.

Other Academy instructors had either been ecstatic or frothing. The enthusiasts claimed that he was bolstering their dedication by making them enlarge their paradigms to include doubt. The detractors had gone so far as to accuse him of being a Changeling saboteur stranded on Earth after the war. Macen had merely smiled and informed them that the Federation had already won the war.

He'd then asked two simple questions, "And that being the case, why are you still afraid of being defeated? Who is your enemy, is it a foreign power or your own fears?"

Drake and the Academy Commandant had spent an entire afternoon fending off outraged and sputtering Academy instructors after that courtyard confrontation. Macen had become a folk hero to the cadets and discovered a willing audience wherever he went on campus. For awhile, Drake was worried about what he might be urging them to do but swiftly learned from Boothby that Macen was merely expanding on his lectures.

Drake smiled inwardly at recalling Boothby's ringing endorsement of Macen's activities. The aged groundskeeper may have been officially "retired", but no one could keep him from his beloved flowerbeds or his latest crop of cadets. Over the decades, Starfleet had learned to listen to his insights. Boothby knew how to pick promising cadets and groom them the same way he could pick a bulb and groom it into an award winning bloom. His ringing endorsement of Macen had convinced her to leave him be.

"He's good for the kids." Boothby had declared, "Makes 'em think, by God. They need that. He makes sure they don't get stuck in mental boxes."

Drake's face turned hard as she thought about why she'd summoned Macen, "We have a situation and I think your group is the most qualified to solve it."

"That bodes ill." Macen remarked dryly, "Somebody's knickers must really be in a twist if they think _my_ group is the most qualified."

Drake smirked despite herself. Macen and his team had been accused of being "cowboys" and of being throwbacks to the days of James Kirk and Hikaru Sulu. _Not surprising since Macen actually served under Sulu_. She knew that their antics went far beyond anything Macen had committed. _At least so far_, she amended.

"You could say that." Drake replied and activated the display of her data terminal and swivelled it so that Macen could view it.

"This is the _NDT-129016 S.S. Hornblower_. She was discovered by the _U.S.S. Horta_ three weeks."

"It looks like someone beat the hell out of her." Macen commented, "Where was she found?"

"Five hundred kilometres beyond the Andergani frontier."

Macen winced, "The Andergani haven't tried any shipping raids since the beginning of the war." He also knew why they had stopped those raiding efforts. Macen had been the commander of a mission to insert Angosian commandos into the Andergani capital. The commandos had "persuaded" the Oligarchy to stay within their own borders for the duration of the war.

The Andergani Oligarchy had been a persistent thorn in the Federation's side since First Contact twelve years before. The Andergani were humanoid. They also possessed a lower tech base than the Federation and were ruled by a twelve-member council known as the _Polstice_. The Polstice kept their grip over the populace by regulating the release of technology. They bought loyalty by rewarding privateers that were able to secure samples of more advanced equipment.

Colonisation near the frontier was strictly regulated. Trade, however, was virtually unregulated. Various shadow enterprises like the Orion Syndicate used this to their benefit but so did a multitude of legitimate businesses. Freighters like the _Hornblower_ constantly ran across the border. Most escaped serious harm but occasionally a tragedy like this happened.

"You want us to see if the Andergani are responsible?"

"I'm afraid the situation is more complicated than that." Drake said, her voice weary, "Take a look at this."

The display switched to the interior of the craft. Bodies lay sprawled across the decks. Others were frozen, their faces captured in the rictus of death. No one had died easily.

"Their power and life support was cut _after_ their attackers had control of the ship."

"What kind of weapons were used?" Macen asked, pointing at the burn marks across several victims' chest.

"Federation issued phasers."

Macen gave her a sharp look, "I see you understand the problem. It gets worse."

"I'd like to know how." Macen said sourly.

"We've lost contact with the _Horta_. We haven't heard from her in three days. They went of the charts just after they ran another comparison of the ship's crew manifest and the victim tally and realised that there was a discrepancy."

"They've been kidnapped?"

"Looks that way." Drake agreed, "The _Horta _was supposed to transmit another report six hours after that discovery was made. They never sent a signal."

"And I assume they were using encrypted channels?"

"The latest and greatest."

"This just gets better."

"Aren't you glad I called you in now?"

Macen gave her a look that indicated exactly how he felt.

* * *

The cadets stumbled out of the simulator. All were in various stages of shock. The _Kobiyashi Maru_ simulation was infamous for rattling trainees, but this run had been something special. This "mission" had been commanded by T'Kir.

Hannah Grace and T'Kir were the last to leave. They were both laughing hysterically. They abruptly stopped when they suddenly found themselves confronted by Admirals Stoner and Arnor. Both of them came to attention, although T'Kir had far less enthusiasm and her posture was much more lax.

"Ensign Grace, your presence is not required." Stoner informed her icily.

"Begging the Admiral's pardon..." Grace began.

"Ensign, are you typically in the habit of ignoring orders from a superior officer?" Arnor asked dryly.

"No, ma'am." Grace replied emphatically.

"Then there's hope for you yet." Arnor's tone would have dehydrated the Pacific, "Dismissed."

Grace left, leaving T'Kir facing the two Admirals. Stoner was a human male form the colony world Tarsus VI. It was a rugged mining colony on the edge of Federation space. Stoner reflected his native origins.

Arnor was Circian. She was essentially a six-metre celery stalk with appendages and eye slits. Arnor was only one of two members of her race to join Starfleet since her homeworld's introduction to the Federation forty years ago. She possessed no mouth _per se_. Vibrating her outer cellulose sheath generated her "voice".

"Lieutenant, I must confess that your..._solution_ marks a new epoch in Starfleet history." Arnor informed her.

"I try." T'Kir replied jovially, her head cocked to one side.

"_Lt_. T'Kir," Stoner's voice rumbled, creating images of a landslide, "what were you thinking when you gave you last set of orders?"

"I was thinking about how to stop the enemy." She replied evenly.

"By inverting your warp field and destroying yourself and creating a subspace rift that made warp navigation impossible?"

"Yes!" T'Kir replied hotly, "I was one ship against six Jem'Hadar attach ships while trying to hold the Bajoran wormhole and defend a freighter. I 'neutralised' the Jem'Hadar and made it impossible for any of their reinforcements to enter the Alpha Quadrant until Starfleet could recall the 9th Fleet to _DS9_."

"But you secured this victory by sacrificing your crew." Stoner intoned harshly.

"Yes, I did." She replied with satisfaction, "I thought Starfleet officers swore an oath to lay their lives down in pursuit of their duty?"

"They do." Arnor responded, "But that does not mean their lives should be thrown away recklessly."

"I don't think they were." T'Kir replied defiantly.

"Hopefully, you will never be forced to relive this experience in actuality." Arnor said solemnly, "I fear to see how you would respond in reality."

T'Kir stifled a yawn, "Can I go now?"

Stoner nearly choked over her impertinence. Arnor vibrated with her species' version of laughter, "Yes, you're dismissed Lieutenant."

T'Kir snapped off a sloppy salute and strolled down the corridor towards the exit.

"Deities preserve us." Arnor hummed.

"At least she's Intelligence and not Fleet." Stoner commented, "I don't think God Herself could save us if that one ever got her hands on a starship."

* * *

Lisea smiled as Macen stepped into the flat she'd moved into overlooking the Puget Sound. The Queen Anne Heights area of Seattle held been preserved intact and unchanged for three centuries now, indicating its resident's love. Macen had been impressed with the city and its surrounding areas. He could see why the fanciful nickname, the Emerald City, had stayed with the metropolis throughout the years.

Lisea's decision to reside here, as much as the look on her face as he entered, confirmed what he'd already suspected, "You've resigned then?"

His matter of fact tone surprised her, "You knew?"

He shrugged, "I suspected it. I've barely heard from you over the last two months, and when I have, it's been rather distant."

She sighed, sitting on a stool next to the counter, "I didn't want this to happen."

He gave her a grin, "I know."

She shot him an irritated glance, "You don't have to be so damned understanding about it."

"What d'you want me to be?" he asked sarcastically.

She leaned her head against her propped arm, "I don't know." Her voice was weary, "We were reunited after a three year absence and then split apart again. I tell you I'm leaving and you're being... so _rational _about it. It's annoying."

Macen's face twisted in a wry expression, "Lees, when we were reunited, it was wonderful. It was also different. You'd put together a new life, one that returned you to your career and your ambitions."

_What you wanted before meeting me and joining the Maquis,_ he left unspoken as well as, _before discovering that the Federation was exiling its own citizens to a Gulag in the Beta Quadrant._

"I still love you." She informed him, her voice catching.

"And I still love you, always will." He replied honestly.

"You could come with me." She suggested, "The Daystrom Institute is looking for social scientists."

He shook his head, "You know I can't. I have obligations."

"She'll be fine." Danan growled in irritation, "She's Nechayev's problem now."

Macen gave her an amused grin, "T'Kir's not my only loyalty here. I have other promises to keep."

She nodded sadly, "I know. I just had to be certain."

He stepped closer and took her hand, "We've shared incredible times, Lisea. I hate for them to end, but I can see it's for the best."

She looked up, her eyes misting, "I hate to see you go like this, but I think I need to be alone now."

He nodded. He left without a sound. Lisea shuddered as emotions rippled through her. She knew her decision was for the best, but it would take awhile for her to feel that way in earnest about it.


	2. Chapter 2

24

Uprising

"She's beautiful." Alynna Nechayev exclaimed softly. The Admiral's surprise appearance at the dockyards had become less of a surprise when she'd expressed her condolences regarding Danan's resignation and handed him a padd sent by Drake. The padd contained the personnel record of his new team XO.

Brin wasn't about to dispute her. Floating before them, the _SS Odyssey_ sat in dock. She'd spent the last three months at the Planetia Utopia yards being refitted for her new assignment. Her modifications were complete, just in time for them to be utilised.

He'd spent nearly three years aboard her together. It had been a defining time in his life. Although he'd infiltrated the Maquis for Starfleet Intelligence, he'd actually endorsed the cause of the freedom fighters. Many of his Maquis comrades were now dead, but he still had the ship and the memories. It had served as his home for years and was one of the few physical links he had to his past.

Starfleet had commissioned the scoutship in 2323. She'd spent her entire existence on or near the Federation's contested border with the Cardassian Union. Officially lost in action, the ship had been "acquired" by the enigmatic Section 31. Macen and Danan had led a team of Maquis to a secret storage facility and "liberated" the ship, and several others, from Section 31's possession.

The ship was a smaller hybrid of the _Excelsior_ and _Ambassador_-classes. It took a maximum crew of twenty-two, and could be operated by as few as three. Packing incredible power and speed for her size, she could engage ships several times her size. Unfortunately, Starfleet Operations tended towards larger starship designs. Unlike the Klingon Bird of Prey, the _Blackbird_-class was consigned to decommissioning and private ownership.

Admiral Drake had decided that the ship, once updated, provided more than served the Special Investigations team's needs. Her maximum speed had been boosted from Warp 8.3 to 9.3. Her phaser arrays had been replaced with the new Type XI design. She now boasted quantum torpedoes and ablative armour. Her computers had also been augmented by the addition of neuro-gel components.

"They don't make them like this any more." Nechayev commented, "Although that may change with the impact from the war. Starfleet's changing, returning to its past as a paramilitary organisation."

She stole a glance at his barely suppressed grin, "You like that fact don't you?"

He didn't try to hide his smile any longer, "Starfleet is a force for exploration and diplomacy, but it also needs a backbone of officers and ships specialising in defence."

"You'd split the fleet?" she asked with surprised curiosity, "Establish a scientific branch and a military branch?"

"I wouldn't call it a complete split." Macen replied, "More of an interwoven framework. When Starfleet was first founded, it was set up along similar lines."

"I know. The Admiralty has spent a lot of time reviewing those records lately." She almost sighed as she continued to stare at the ship.

"Want a tour?" he asked.

She brightened immediately, "I thought you'd never get around to asking."

* * *

They strolled through the various decks. The bridge had been altered. It now resembled a hybrid between those of the _Defiant_ and _Intrepid_-classes. The design gave the ship a sleeker, deadlier ambience.

The Flight Control station remained in the front of the bridge. Tactical and Science/Ops were in alcoves to either side slightly behind the Helm. The command chair was dead centre, between two terminal/displays. Behind the command chair were two wall consoles to busy relief crew.

The other decks were largely unchanged merely modernised a bit. Engineering had been redesigned with a much more powerful and efficient warp core. It also had an engineer bustling about. Macen and Nechayev stopped and waited for the man to notice their arrival.

After a few more adjustments, and more than a few expletives, the engineer looked up, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Nechayev blinked in surprise, admiral's rarely received that kind of reception. Macen laughed. Their reactions seemed to infuriate the engineer even more. He folded his arms across his chest and glowered.

"I happen to be the commander of this vessel." Macen informed him, "Who would you be?"

The man ran a hand across his nearly bald head. A few sandy strands remained atop with the rest forming a half crown around his head. He was a thin, reedy man with sharp features. His face and hands were heavily lined.

"Name's Hal Dracas." The engineer answered gruffly, "I'm the supervising Engineer for the refit."

Dracas' eyes narrowed, "I'm also the new Chief Engineer for this tub according to the orders I received this morning."

Macen extended his hand, "Welcome aboard Chief. I'm Brin Macen."

"Thanks." Dracas replied, accepting Macen's hand.

Nechayev extended hers, "I'm Alynna Nechayev."

"I've heard of you." Dracas admitted, he glanced at Nechayev's rank insignia, "I wasn't expecting any visitors today."

"It shows." Macen replied lightly.

"You're not human are you?"

Macen grinned, "No, why?"

"I'm a Troglyte from Ardanna IV. I've noticed that humans generally exhibit the same arrogance as our native Stratosians. They wouldn't react well to my insulting one of their admirals," he nodded towards Nechayev, "but not you even though you look human. You carry yourself wrong."

Macen smiled appreciatively, "Thanks, I'll take that as a compliment."

"Somehow Chief, I think you'll fit right in with this crew." Nechayev laughed.

Dracas gave her a relieved glance and sighed, "Glad to hear it, ma'am. And I'm glad I'm not getting court-martialled"

* * *

T'Kir, Grace and Kort stepped off the runabout. They'd been cramped aboard its confines for the better part of a day. The first half of the day had been placid enough. The second half had been far more strenuous.

"You are wrong!" Kort thundered.

"I am not, you Klingon _eflim_!" T'Kir shouted back, despite the fact he was walking less than a metre from her.

Grace shook her head and picked up her pace. She'd been listening to the same argument since Alpha Centauri. It had been tiresome fifteen minutes after it had started. It was even more tiresome ten hours later.

Kort stopped. His eyes appeared to be swelling. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as he struggled to contain his rage. T'Kir stood before him, fists on her hips, not giving an inch.

"I will only say this one more time." Kort said slowly.

_That'd be a relief_. Grace thought sourly.

"Klingon medicine is _not_ inferior to Vulcan methods." Kort snarled, "Klingons can endure greater amounts of pain than humans so we do not rely as heavily on pain-killers as Federation practitioners."

T'Kir never wavered, "Vulcans can block all pain from their minds _and _induce healing trances which make physicians unnecessary."

"Block pain, eh?" Kort asked sceptically.

"All pain." T'Kir challenged, then shrieked suddenly. She leapt away from Kort, bouncing herself of the station's bulkhead. She tried rubbed her backside and her head simultaneously. Her face twisted into a frustrated pout.

Kort smiled broadly in triumph as he sheathed his dagger, "I guess there are some pains that Vulcans _can't_ block."

He walked away chuckling to himself. T'Kir stuck out her tongue at his departing back. Grace approached her friend while shaking her head. T'Kir was often as frustrating as she was brilliant. Grace supposed that was the price T'Kir had to pay for being a powerful but untrained telepath.

"I hope that issue is finally settled." Grace said dryly.

T'Kir gave her a sullen glare, "He just caught me by surprise."

"You're a telepath." Grace retorted dryly, "You're not supposed to be surprised."

"The inhibitors I've been taking make it so I don't pick up everyone's thoughts all the time, just stray ones here and there." T'Kir sniffed in reply.

"Good excuse." Grace's teased.

"What've I done to deserve this abuse?" T'Kir threw her arms in the air.

"You were born." Grace laughed.

Passengers started filing out of the adjacent airlock. Most wore Starfleet uniforms. Two were in civilian attire. The last to exit wore a rust coloured Bajoran Militia uniform.

T'Kir's head cocked to one side as she watched the other woman shift the large bag thrown over her shoulder. The Bajoran consulted a nearby display outlining the station's layout. When she'd found what she was looking for, she marched off with a purposeful stride. T'Kir and Grace exchanged curious glances.

"Why d'you think she's here?" Grace mused aloud.

"She's probably here for the same assignment we are." T'Kir replied.

Grace rolled her eyes, "I suppose this is one of those 'stray' thoughts?"

"Nope." T'Kir replied grimly, "Just an intimate knowledge of Bajoran uniforms. That's a Military Intelligence uniform. There's no reason a Bajoran intel officer would be here unless it was as an exchange officer."

"And since a shipyard hardly qualifies as a Starfleet Intelligence outpost, that leaves us." Grace continued.

"Course, she could always be heading for another ship." T'Kir hedged.

"And the likelihood of that?" Grace asked wryly.

"Less than discovering you're a Borg in disguise." T'Kir replied grimly.

"Thought so."

* * *

The door to Macen's quarters chimed. Macen sighed as he called out, "Enter."

The door slid open to reveal a short, muscular figure. His hair was close-cropped and greying. A ragged scar ran down his left cheek. His eyes and movements marked him for what he truly was, a professional soldier.

"Rab Daggit!" Macen exclaimed in surprise.

"Hello, Captain." Daggit replied softly.

"Who's your friend?" Nechayev asked as she stepped out of the head.

"Lt. Rab Daggit." the Angosian answered before Macen had an opportunity to speak, "I served with the commander during the war."

"I'm sorry." Nechayev replied sincerely.

Daggit laughed, "So was I, ma'am."

Macen gave them both a rueful look, "What are you doing here Rab?"

"I've been assigned to your team, sir." Daggit informed him.

"How?" Macen asked in surprise, "I heard you'd been assigned to the _Enterprise_ as a Tactical Officer."

"I was, sir." Daggit explained, "I turned down the assignment and volunteered for this one."

Macen couldn't hide his confused shock, "Why?"

Shame passed across Daggit's face before he replied, "I was aboard the _Enterprise_ when you were on your way to find that gulag that Federation citizens were being deported to. I advised Captain Picard not to trust you. I misjudged you during the war, and I wanted a chance to make up for it."

Macen was both flattered and dismayed, "Do you still hold negative feelings towards me?"

"No." came the swift and fervent reply.

"Low opinions?"

"No!"

"Then I'm happy and you shouldn't have transferred off the flagship of the fleet." Macen told him.

"I'm also doing this for myself, sir." Daggit said softly, "I wasn't entirely happy in my duties."

Macen could understand that. The Angosian had undergone physical and mental modifications at the hands of his native government during the course of a war they'd fought. The soldiers had been physiologically enhanced and psychologically programmed for warfare and survival. Unfortunately, they hadn't known how to reverse the programming once the soldiers came home.

That tragedy had caused the Federation to decline Angosia's application for membership until a solution had been found. That policy had changed with the advent of the Dominion War. Starfleet had needed commandos with the skills and abilities the Angosians had possessed. Their planet had been allowed into the Federation in exchange for a wholesale enlistment of its former soldiers.

Macen had been the intelligence officer assigned to the commando unit. That had been his punishment for stretching his orders to the breaking point by aiding the Maquis while infiltrating them. He and the Angosians spent nearly three years behind enemy lines gathering military intelligence and conducting sabotage. It had been like being in the Maquis all over again.

Due to Daggit's programming and enhanced reflexes, Starfleet's normal protocols towards an aggressor would seem woefully inadequate. The Angosian commandos operated best under threat and while fighting for their lives. They were edgy and uncomfortable in times of peace. That was what had prevented them from rejoining their native society.

Macen held out his hand, "Then I'm happy to have you aboard." Daggit took it gratefully and gave Macen a beaming smile.

"You'd better be." Nechayev interjected, "After all, Daggit's your new XO."

She relished the stunned look Macen gave her. It was fitting revenge for scaring her half to death by having himself beamed directly atop her desk in her office.

She smiled sweetly, "I gave you the personnel jacket. It's not my fault you haven't read it."

* * *

Macen was on his way to one of the primary station's briefing rooms loaned to the Special Investigation team. Everyone had already gone inside except for Kort, T'Kir, and Grace. They exchanged pleasantries with Macen before proceeding into the Briefing Room. T'Kir lingered a moment longer, extracting a promise from Macen to hear about her Academy exploits.

Macen hesitated for a moment as his eye caught a flurry of movement approaching down the corridor. A young woman in a rust Bajoran uniform was running towards him. Her expression alternated between desperation and anger. She skidded to a halt before Macen and struggled to catch her breath.

"Is this where the Special Investigations unit briefing is being held?"

"Yes." Macen answered, trying to keep his amusement out of his voice, "I take it no one offered to show you around the station?"

"No, they didn't." she answered with a wry smile as she extended her hand, "Lt. Nerrit Wen at your service."

He took her hand, "Captain Brin Macen at yours."

He watched the colour drain from her face. Her thin lips dropped open as her jaw went slack then clenched shut. Macen examined the fiercely determined expression that settled on her angular face. She was a feisty one.

Her blue eyes projected steel as she spoke, "I'm sorry I'm late, sir."

Macen shrugged, "Everyone's allowed a few unfortunate circumstances, Lieutenant. Just don't make it a habit."

"I won't, sir." she replied confidently.

Macen admired her spunk as she entered before him. She'd accepted the situation and adjusted to it quickly. Macen judged her to be just slightly older than Grace. That meant she was old enough to participate in the last years of the Resistance against the Cardassian occupation of Bajor. If that were true, she'd undoubtedly prove to be a mistress at improvisation.

Macen brought the meeting to order. He gazed across the room. There were sixteen people present. The ship wouldn't carry its full compliment of twenty-two due to the simple fact that civilian vessels rarely carried their maximum crew. A good quarter of the crew were engineers.

"Well, as you can see here," Macen spoke to the group, "we're a pretty diverse bunch."

He examined the padd that contained a copy of their orders, "The senior staff will comprise of myself, Dr. Kort, Lt. Daggit, T'Kir, Ensign Grace, and Chief Dracas."

He saw nods of approval at that. Although they were being assigned to the _Odyssey_, they weren't being assigned along traditional lines. Kort remained the medical specialist for the team. Most of them received this assignment more because of their paramilitary skills than their shipboard abilities.

All in all, it was a good mix they'd ended up with. Grace, T'Kir, and Macen were all rated for the helm. T'Kir, Kort, and Macen all held speciality ratings for the Science station. T'Kir and Dracas were both Ops wizards while Daggit and their exchange officer, Nerrit, were highly trained Tactical experts, which did not factor in Macen and T'Kir's guerrilla experiences.

Dracas held the title of Chief Engineer for the ship. Grace was the Chief Helmsman. T'Kir would man the Science/Ops station. Daggit had Tactical duties, with Nerrit as his junior. Daggit and Macen would rotate command duties on the second watch as well as including juniors. The eight other officers would comprise the night shift and the Engineering crew.

It worked great on a padd. Now it was just a matter of getting the disparate personalities to blend together into a cohesive unit rather than a group of individualists. Since Macen's team had been built out of a group of determined non-conformists, transforming them into Starfleet's vision of a team would prove interesting indeed. Macen's head throbbed in anticipation of headaches to come.

"We're headed for _Deep Space 13_." Macen informed the gathered crew, "It's a joint venture operated by the Kresh and the Federation."

The Kresh were an amphibian species, that though technologically advanced, preferred staying close to the world of their origin to space travel. Their territory bordered the Andergani's. The Polstice had ordered several attacks on the laconic Kresh in the past. Starfleet's mission there was to provide protection as well as a layover base for deep space exploration efforts.

"_DS13_?" a junior repeated distastefully, "It's in the middle of nowhere."

"That's why it's called the frontier." Macen replied dryly, "Are there any other questions?" Seeing no responses, he spoke again, "Then stow your gear and get your duty rotation from your department heads."


	3. Chapter 3

41

Uprising

The _Odyssey_ sailed trough warp space effortlessly. Macen had slowly elevated speeds while testing the modifications to his satisfaction. Planetia Utopia had given the ship a certification before their departure, but Macen also knew a commander never took a dockyard's word for it. The true shakedown occurred when the ship's crew returned and put her through her paces.

As Macen glanced across the bridge, he realised how odd that thought was now. Beside himself, only T'Kir had spent any significant amount of time aboard. Even then, T'Kir manned the Ops console. Now Ops was coupled with Science.

T'Kir had been a fair pilot, but nowhere near Grace's calibre. He was sorry he'd missed her stint at the helm while battling Section 31's dupes in orbit above Earth. He'd been on the ground trying to present evidence of their illegal gulag. The prison had been shut down and its inhabitants repatriated. While many Starfleet and Federation officials had been tried, not one Section 31 operative had been captured.

Macen had crossed Section 31's path twice that he knew of. Undoubtedly it had happened far more often than that during his eighty year career with Starfleet Intelligence. They'd remained virtually undetected for almost 300 years. There was no way of knowing how many times he'd orbited their sphere of influence. It was a thought that both depressed and enraged Macen.

Macen was intimately familiar with both emotions. He'd lost an entire civilisation and a quadrant to the Borg. His entire family and most of his friends had died or been scattered across the galaxy after the assimilation of the El-Aurian Commonwealth. He'd replaced his lost family and society with the Maquis only to lose them to the Dominion. He'd faced two of the most efficient and ruthless species in the galaxy. Section 31 paled in comparison.

Maven glanced towards the Science/Ops station. T'Kir's mouth was twisted up in reaction to something. He laughed inwardly at her display. Although her impulsiveness was occasionally difficult to manage at times, T'Kir's stark honesty had always been refreshing.

Lisea Danan had been Macen's first long-term romance since arriving in the Alpha Quadrant. His lifespan was several times that of most Federation species. Even a Vulcan or a Gideonite's 300+ years was slightly under the average El-Aurian's. Danan's symbiot had at least provided a chance of a continuing relationship even if it would have been altered by the change of Trill host bodies.

Although the El-Aurians in the Alpha Quadrant had agreed not to share the secrets of their anti-ageing techniques, Macen sometimes wondered if that was not born out of a desire to remain unique. The Gideonites employed similar methods as well. They'd gone further and had been forced to re-introduce disease to their biosphere in order to curb their rampant over-population crisis.

As a member of the Expeditionary Survey Forces, Macen had been given the latest and most powerful series of treatments during his early training. A naturally long-lived race, the El-Aurians had long ago decided to give the most powerful treatments to their scientists and those that had indebted society to them. The typical treatments extended the normal centennial life expectancy by a factor of three. The more advanced treatments employed a factor of ten.

Macen could easily expect to reach an age of 1200. He was already over a quarter of the way there. His biology's chronological age roughly approximated that of a 30-year-old human. His advantage lay in the fact that he had over 400 years worth of experience behind that apparent youth.

That had been a driving force behind his romance with Danan. Outwardly, she was nearly the same age but she carried a centuries old soul within her symbiot. That sense of experience outweighing outward form had been what drove them together. It had also been what drove them apart. Lisea had wanted Danan to pass on life experiences different from the wartime experiences and gritty revelations Macen's intelligence career entailed.

A sense of anticipation also rang through the crew. Still flushed with the Federation's victory over the Dominion, they felt invincible and eagerly awaited their opportunity to reshape the universe. Drake had assembled a strong group with combat experience. Macen wondered how well they'd fare at investigation.

Although not an adherent of the pacifism taught by his people, Macen didn't quite hold with the upswing of interventionist fervour spreading across the Federation. The utopian dreams of non-interference preached by Federation officials had been shattered by the Dominion. The Founder's policies of cultural manipulation had almost toppled an alliance of the three strongest powers in the Alpha Quadrant. Most of the Federation's social theoreticians were now scrambling to revise their opinions of regulated societies.

The trend disturbed Macen. It stank of assimilation. No survivor of Borg aggression could ever view such things the same. The bitterest pill was that the Federation itself had repelled the Borg twice and chose not to recognise the similarities of such policies.

Whereas Starfleet previously would have held back before leaping into a fray between two sovereign stellar nations, now they tended to barge in and demand to mediate negotiations. Whether or either side wanted to negotiate was beside the point. The Federation, saviour of the Alpha Quadrant, had declared that negotiations should begin and begin they would. Macen seriously doubted how such decisions were beginning to appear to the Romulans and various non-aligned powers.

The Klingons were faithfully supporting the Federation's actions. This was due in part to their crippling losses during the war and also due to their echoes to former Imperial policies. Macen knew that although domestically the Romulans were facing the defection of entire segments of their society, like the Rhihansu, they were gaining interstellar prestige as the prophets of the Federation's arrogance and hypocrisy. It was a rather ironic vindication for a race that viewed itself as being physically and morally superior to all others.

Macen shrugged these concerns aside as he asked T'Kir for a report. The Vulcan's eyes flicked lightly across the displays. Macen had run several drills over the last few days and she perused her equipment before answering in case of a sudden change in her readings. Macen managed not to smile as she replied.

"Nothing out there." her voice rang confidently, almost defiantly.

T'Kir always reminded Macen of Ro Laren in many ways. She was quirky, stubborn, wilful, and impulsive. She was also caring and loyal. Even though she'd tried to kill him in a fit of telepathically induced insanity, he trusted her unlike anyone else aboard.

Macen heard T'Kir mutter a curse under her breath, "What is it T'Kir?"

"I'm detecting a glitch in our sensor array." T'Kir replied, annoyance permeated her words.

Macen straightened up, "Can you resolve it?"

"Already on it. I've engaged the back-ups and widened the radius of the other sensors."

"I take it you've isolated the problem?" Macen asked.

"Yes." T'Kir replied glumly, "One of our port sensors was displaying an echo of its neighbouring unit. The differential was so slight, I hadn't noticed it."

Macen nodded. It was an easy mistake to make. Technically, the targeting sensors weren't her purview, but she took it upon herself to monitor all the sensor systems. The diagnostics hadn't detected it while Daggit used the systems. That meant the diagnostics might be faulty as well.

He nodded towards T'Kir, "Get ahold of Chief Dracas and tell him what you've got. I want to know how this happened."

T'Kir was already contacting the Chief. They were eleven hours out of Kresh territory. They would make a short layover at the station there before entering Andergani territory. Their lives and their investigation depended upon the sensors operating properly.

* * *

Hilde Edgars lifted her head off the floor. This was no easy task considering that her arms were bound behind her. The bruises and broken ribs also worked against her. She managed to twist her knees underneath her by leveraging herself on her head.

Her head swung up only to nearly come crashing back down. The galaxy spun like a wheel in the universe and Edgars was suddenly intimately aware of it. She took deep, even breaths and forced her vision to clear. She tried to clear the mental cobwebs in order to remember why she'd received the latest beating.

The _Horta_ had been ambushed. They'd followed the trail left behind the raiders that had looted that freighter. What they'd found..._Oh God,_ what they'd found. The _Horta_ had been disabled within minutes.

Edgars had signalled her surrender but it had been to no avail. The pirates couldn't afford witnesses. Edgars had ordered her crew to abandon ship in a desperate hope that some of them would escape destruction. The only pod that had been spared was the one containing her, Alicia Witt, and her Chief Tactical Officer.

Chief Hadlin had been executed immediately upon their being beamed aboard the lead pirate ship. There was no other term to describe it. The moment they materialised, a high power phaser beam disintegrated him. Edgars had not been surprised. She no longer had the capacity for surprise.

They'd tracked the _Hornblower's_ destroyers down only to discover they were Starfleet. Three starships to be exact. They had escaped destruction during the Dominion campaign that captured Betazed. The battered and weary crews accepted the Andergani offer of protection in exchange for technology "infusions".

They augmented their ranks with displaced mercenaries from across the Alpha Quadrant. Some of them were former Maquis, Bajoran Resistance, and Symmetrists that found themselves in Andergani territory while fleeing capture. Their philosophical and political views twisted beyond recognition, poisoned by hate. The transition into piracy merely serving to fulfil impulses no longer satisfied while in pursuit of a "noble" cause.

The appearance of three starships had greatly changed the nature of Andergani piracy. Led by a former Lt. Commander, the Starfleet ships quickly decimated their rivals. The privateers that survived, survived at the sufferance of Herbert Spencer. With two _Miranda_-class and a _New Orleans_-class, they were unrivalled within the Andergani domain. They swiftly pinioned themselves into a virtual fiefdom of a solar system in exchange for the upsurge of bounty they produced.

Edgars had met Spencer's gaze levelly. His career had stalled years before. The spark that ignited in his eyes as he stared into her impassionate gaze had been his mind converting her into the imagined source of his life's failures. He saw the chance of breaking her as his chance to overcome the obstacles of his past.

She and Alicia were taken to junior officer's quarters and tied to the beds. He had several of his "officers", male and female alike, rape them repetitively over a period of two days. Whenever one was being raped, the other was forced to watch. Edgars had then subjected to witnessing Alicia being beaten.

No questions were ever asked of her or Alicia. They transferred her to the brig and left her in isolation. She'd been alone for three weeks when they'd piped a visual signal into her cell. Alicia had been nursed back into a semblance of health so that the cycle of rape could resume.

It was during the long weeks alone that Hilde realised what Spencer wanted. She begged to see him after receiving the signal showing Witt's fate. She thrown herself to the deck before him and pleaded for Alicia and herself. Rather than pleasing Spencer, it had enraged him.

He'd claimed his victory had come too cheaply. That was when he personally attacked her. The only satisfaction she had was that he'd brought Alicia's limp form to the brig and left her on a cell. She was safe from her tormentors now.

Edgars shifted her jaw. It was swollen but unbroken. Her left eye was swollen half shut, but she could still see. Compared to the brutality Alicia had endured thus far, Edgars had escaped virtually unscathed.

Her first duty was to survive. She _had_ to survive. If she didn't, there would be no way for her to help Alicia. As long as they survived, there was a chance she could obtain justice for her First Officer.

Even in the fires of the Dominion War, Edgars had never felt the cold embrace of hatred. She felt it now. She now understood that feeling now. She now knew what could drive a man like Spencer into the pits of depravity. She refused to plunge there herself. She would remain unbroken and would find a way to see Spencer brought to heel. Her focus enabled her to ignore her own sense of violation.

* * *

Macen stepped into the mess to find it nearly deserted. He supposed it was due to the fact that the day watch had stood down almost two hours ago. He'd discussed the nature of their sensor failure with T'Kir and then quietly driven Dracas insane by standing by in the Science lab while the Chief and T'Kir worked on replacing the faulty unit. He almost wished he'd left the Chief to T'Kir's alone to tender mercies, then he _really_ would have been driven insane.

Macen didn't truly understand why he'd taken T'Kir under his wing. Ro Laren had foisted her off on him to be spared her increasing instability. It had taken Macen years to discover her problem stemmed from not being trained to deal with her heightened telepathic abilities. Her bouts of insanity stemming from her inability to quell the mental assaults she endured every waking moment.

Of course, there was also the matter of her trying to kill him. During their time together in the Maquis, he'd never realised her visceral attraction to him. He assumed it derived from his people's natural resistance to telepathic probes. As the person that didn't invade her mind, he'd seemed unbearably attractive.

Lisea's thoughts, however, had been an open book. T'Kir had gleaned the details of their experiences together from her mind. During their final withdrawal from the Dominion assault on the Maquis strongholds, T'Kir had snapped. The overwhelming tension in the air combined with her own jealousy had been too much to deal with and she'd tried to stab him.

Macen shrugged that memory aside as he ordered his meal from the replicator. He took a taste and sighed. Living with the Maquis had been a hard life but at least the food had been fresh. Starfleet's self-imposed dependence upon replicated foodstuffs cut down on the need for frequent supply stops, but the fare was frightfully bland, no matter what had been ordered.

He sat down at a table and ate quietly alone. When he was done he returned the dishes to the replicator for recycling. He then deposited himself down at the nearest entertainment unit and called up a favourite strategy game of his. He had just finished selecting which scenario to play when Nerrit entered.

She nodded on her way to the replicator. After receiving a steaming mug of tea, she promptly sat down across from Macen. Her eyes quickly surveyed the game. Her lips curled up in a smile of delight.

"You play _Telldright_?" she asked.

Macen grinned, "I learned about during my time with the Maquis. It was a favourite among the former Resistance members."

Nerrit nodded. The motion caused the loops dangling from her traditional earring to sway. He noticed the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. The bone ridges on the bridge of her nose almost imperceptibly descended down its length, disappearing millimetres above the rounded nub that tipped its end.

She had a high forehead that descended into a pointed jaw. Her thin lips, upturned nose, and large eyes balanced her "long" face. Her blonde hair was pulled into a long braid coiled around the back of her head.

Macen studied the lively eyes that peered back at him through her bangs. The intelligence he'd first detected there was grinding away at lightening speed. She was assessing _him_. He grinned wickedly, _Well, if she wants a contest_.

"Do you play?" he asked.

"Not as often as I'd like." she answered simply, revealing nothing.

"Would you like to assume the computer's role?" he offered.

Her smile widened, it had a feline quality to it, "I'd love to."

Macen had saved the games. She trounced him, not once but _three_ times. _At least the third round hadn't been a complete rout like the first two_. Macen had been beaten at the game before but never that soundly or consistently.

After the third game she'd gracefully given him an out by claiming weariness. He'd gratefully accepted and they had ordered drinks instead and began discussing their relative paths to their current assignment. He'd been surprised to learn she'd made a study of his exploits among the Maquis.

He was more interested in learning more about her than in discussing himself. She'd enlisted in the Militia at 22 right on the heels of the Cardassian withdrawal. Macen asked her about it.

"The family had been allowed to visit out familial village upon the death of my grandmother. She'd been the leader of the village and fairly important in the politics of the Southern islands. While I was there, a local Resistance leader talked me into helping them."

She shrugged diffidently, "I was asked to deliver a package to a Cardassian sentry post. As I was walking away, it exploded. I returned to see what'd happened."

Her eyes clouded as old memories came to the fore of her mind, "Only one _glinn_ remained alive. He was missing his right arm. He just stood there in shock."

Her lips pursed as she remembered her reaction, "I stood there as well. I saw all the blood and the bits of flesh everywhere. I understood that I was responsible by bringing that package."

She shrugged, "The _glinn_ saw me and recognised me as the messenger that had left the package. He tried to grab the phaser on his right hip with his left hand. As he fumbled about, he noticed a rifle laying in the debris and picked it up and killed him."

She gave him a wan smile, "After that, my family returned to the mining camps in Shakuur Province. I joined the Resistance cell there and scouted potential targets for them. I was considered too young by the Cardassians to pose a threat. I also wrote estimates on Cardassian movements based upon changing patrols and local shipping reports."

"And there lies the interest in Intelligence work?" Macen inquired.

She shrugged, "More of a talent than an interest. I'm good at it. I wanted to help my people rebuild after the occupation and it seemed the best way to utilise my talents, such as they are."

Macen smirked at her qualifier. He suspected she knew exactly how skilled she truly was. Her earring held several pendants. Each one indicated a higher level of schooling the Bajoran faith mastered.

"I have no doubts about your abilities." Macen told her earnestly, "Not after facing you at _Telldright_." That was certainly true. The game was waged on several levels. Many of them centred on ways of discovering clues as to the enemy's plans and reacting accordingly. Her instincts were amazing.

"Thanks." she replied with a rueful smile, "The occupation ended a few years after my joining the Resistance. After returning to Bajor, I finished school. I even went to the Academy at B'rehla. I graduated on an accelerated course and was recalled to active duty after the Dominion took over _Tarok_..."

She smiled at the reference and corrected herself, "After the Dominion took over _Deep Space 9_."

"It must have been rough to see the Cardassians return." Macen's expression hinted at his own experience with the Cardassians and the Dominion.

She nodded, the movement more a reflexive spasm than a conscious effort, "You'll never know the relief we felt at having the Federation return."

He saw the clouds in her eyes, "But?"

She flinched slightly, "What?"

"There was something about the Cardassians return that bothered you. Something you haven't mentioned."

Her eyes narrowed, "How?"

It was Macen's turn to shrug, "It's a gift my people have. We listen, not only to what's been said but also what's been left out."

"It would have served us right if the Federation had abandoned us." she replied slowly.

"Why?" Macen asked in honest perplexion.

"We signed a non-aggression treaty with the Dominion." she replied bitterly, "We handed ourselves over to them trusting them to hold to the treaty's stipulation of sovereignty. We prayed that we'd be left alone, but we knew that we were occupied once again."

"The Provisional Government signed that treaty because they knew that Bajor could never repel the Dominion. They did what they thought was best for Bajor."

She gave him a disdainful glare, "They did it because they didn't believe that the Prophets would aid us."

"Do you believe in the Prophets?" Macen asked suddenly.

The question hit Nerrit like a physical blow, "What? What kind of question is that? Of course I believe in the Prophets!"

"But do you believe in them because you have faith they are shepherding Bajor, or because the belief is a cultural legacy?" He asked quietly

Her expression was a blend of outrage and shock, "Do you believe in the Prophets?"

"Yes, I do." Macen replied with a smile and a wave of his hand, "And not in the way that Starfleet does. I don't consider them mere 'wormhole aliens'. I've studied Bajoran history and their positive influences every facet of your culture. Whether or not that influence is technological or supernatural in nature does not concern me. The simple fact is that they have impacted your world for thousands of years."

"It also stems from the fact I can feel their presence."

The last statement made Nerrit's eyes widen a bit, "You can feel them? I thought only the Emissary could commune with the Prophets."

Macen chuckled, "I didn't say I was in communication with them. El-Aurians can feel time-space fluctuations. The Prophets produce an eddy of disturbances."

He shrugged, "I believe, but I believe in a different fashion than you. In ancient times that would have made us enemies."

She frowned, "Why do you say that?"

Macen grinned, "Bajor hit a cultural and technological zenith centuries ago. They were warping about this part of the Quadrant while the Cardassians were still employing chemically propelled weapons upon each other. Why did such an advanced society fall prey to the Cardassians later?"

"We feel from the path." Nerrit answered without much conviction, "They were a punishment sent by the Prophets."

"You may be right." Macen agreed, startling Nerrit even more, "Most vedicks would agree with you. What they won't agree on is how the Bajorans fell from the path."

"And you have the answer?" she asked dubiously.

"I have a theory, just like everybody else." Macen replied simply, "Bajor was fine as long as there was a general consensus of belief. Different factions and sects arose, but they all agreed upon the right to disagree. It wasn't until a few of them decided their interpretation was the only one that things got ugly. Same scriptures and same prophecies but different subjective interpretations that people were willing to kill for. The religious wars lasted for two centuries and Bajoran society was shattered. Because each side had employed advanced weaponry produced by technology, the survivors banned most innovations and returned to a more primitive technology base."

"They decided the way to return to the path of the Prophets was to return to the tech base that existed when the Prophets first appeared. It was because of this decision that Bajor was easy prey to the Cardassians later on."

"Your saying the Occupation was our own fault?" She asked angrily.

"Only the Cardassians themselves are responsible for invading Bajor and the brutalities of the Occupation." Macen corrected, "I contend that the decision to abandon the previous tech base was in error. The fault lay in the interpretation of events. Technology didn't create the strife. The inability to respect differing viewpoints produced the religious wars."

"I can't say the situation's changed much." Nerrit admitted slowly, "Bajor's plagued by the same struggle."

"Every planet's plagued by the same struggle." Macen retorted dryly, "Even the Vulcans have a hard time seeing another Vulcan's perspective."

She watched him for several more moments before she spoke, "I underestimated you."

He smirked, "Most do. That's the secret of my success."

An intriguing glint shone from her eyes, "Somehow I thing its more than just that."

Macen shrugged. His comm badge chirped. He gave a Nerrit a wry expression as he tapped it.

"Macen here."

"Captain." Daggit's voice came over, "The computer said you were still up."

"That's true." he said dryly

"We'll be arriving in two hours." Daggit informed him, "Do you still wish to take the bridge for our docking?"

Macen sighed. He and Nerrit had spent the last six hours together either playing games or in conversation. He gave her a weary look. She nodded and moved towards the replicator.

"I'll be there." he informed Daggit.

He turned towards Nerrit as she awaited his request, "Coffee, with vanilla creamer."

She brought the mug over and handed it to him. He took a sip. The system couldn't produce a decent a decent Algerian tigerfrond barbecue, but it could make good coffee. He grinned appreciatively.

"Thanks."

Her grin was crooked and conveyed mischief, "Gladly, especially since it means I have you captive for another few hours which can be spent discussing philosophy and faith."

He broke into a lop-sided grin of his own, "I'd love to, especially if it means finding out how you got posted to this team."


	4. Chapter 4

51

Uprising

Herbert Spencer sat in the command chair of his _New Orleans_-class starship as though he were mounting a throne. The ship, once named the _USS Manticore_, had been rechristened the _Royalty_. With this ship and its two siblings, Spencer had carved out a private empire within the Andergani Oligarchy.

Spencer was a reedy fellow that had maintained his rank of Lt. Commander for nearly ten years. He'd been a department head, Chief of Environmental Systems, but answered to a Lieutenant that had made Chief Engineer. Spencer had seen that development as the climax of an unfulfilling career. When the senior officers of the ship had died in combat against the Jem'Hadar, he'd been more than willing to assume command.

Having served aboard the same starship for twenty years had given Spencer plenty of time to create his own covert ring of influence. Over the last ten years, Spencer had manipulated a web of profiteers and black marketeers that would have made a Ferengi blush orange. With the senior staff out off the way, it had been a simple matter to assume command and convince other ships containing cohorts to join him.

Their mad dash to escape the Dominion forces had been directed towards the Andergani from the outset. Spencer had dealt with the Andergani for years. He knew that three starships would go far in purchasing him a position of affluence. He had not been mistaken.

The fist tests of his strength had come when officers loyal to Starfleet learned of his plans and launched a mutiny. They'd nearly lost one of the _Mirandas_ over that, the former _USS Nelson_. Reinforcements provided by mercenaries in the employ of the Andergani had tipped the odds to Spencer's favour. They now comprised the bulk of his crews.

The mercenaries were largely drawn from disaffected paramilitary groups that had arisen over the last half century. These were ones that could not reintegrate into their originating societies. They had grown accustomed to warfare. They had found new causes to fight for, either for personal profit or personal satisfaction.

Spencer knew these people had skills that his Starfleet trained personnel had not developed yet. Their suppression of the mutiny had galvanised them. Death had united them in a common goal.

That goal basically translated into avoiding prosecution. It was better to be thought dead in battle against the Dominion than be dragged home in disgrace. Spencer smiled coldly. Every new atrocity bound his crew closer to him. This had led to his decision of leaving no witnesses.

Prisoners could be taken to serve as slave labour or entertainment. Once his crew had accepted their actions, they'd taken to his orders with a vengeance. Their enthusiasm occasionally frightened Spencer. He'd decided that it was better to know his crewmates' depravities rather than remain unawares. It would make it easier to control their deviant urges if they were dependent upon him for their satisfaction.

It wasn't a standard means for establishing authority, but you made do with what you had. Spencer knew he was not a charismatic man, but he was devious. Spencer was a master manipulator. If he hadn't been, Starfleet Internal Affairs would have arrested him years ago. Employing his native skills he had managed to allude investigators and shift the blame to others.

Now, as Baron Herbert Spencer of the Andergani Oligarchy, he exercised authority over thousands. Every raiding party brought new "colonists" to his world. His contacts among the Orion Confederacy also brought him new subjects. Soon it would be time to capture a new ship. He smile would have chilled a supernova.

* * *

Macen was still smiling when he reached the lift. T'Kir and Grace were waiting to board it as well. T'Kir flashed him a disgusted glare at leaving her to help repair the sensors while he'd stolen off. Macen ignored T'Kir's obvious unhappiness. He promised himself they'd have their little talk as soon as time permitted.

Daggit shifted uncomfortably in the command chair. He could face a platoon of Jem'Hadar without a thought of fear. He hadn't expected to be made team XO, much less be given command duties of a ship, even if it was only a scoutship. He was grateful when the lift doors swooshed open, signalling the end of his watch.

The other senior officers entered wearing the uniform designated for Outbound Ventures employees. It consisted of a blue coverall trimmed with black. It had an upraised, black collar that closed at the collarbone. A black strip followed the zipper seam to its conclusion. A black strip cut from underneath the right underarm over the left shoulder. The legs both possessed pinstriped cargo pockets.

A black utility belt and mid-calf boots were part of the ensemble. Each crewman wore a black phaser that resembled a blend between the Romulan disrupter and a Bajoran phaser. It was a design from Macen's native Delta Quadrant. Each wore a tricorder as well.

They wore a gold octagonal comm badge on the left breast. The right sleeve bore a "company" patch while the left carried a ship's patch. They all wore grey Henley style undershirts. Macen and Daggit both wore their coverall sleeves rolled up. The sleeves had their own clasps to secure them.

"Any problems?" Macen asked Daggit with a smile.

"Of course not." Daggit answered with a wan smile.

"See you after we dock." He said with a grin as he stepped out of the chair and began to depart. Daggit groaned inwardly. _Damn the man!_ He was going to force him to do this again..

* * *

_Deep Space 13_ resembled two onion domes connected by a small cylinder. The centre connection and the end of each hub had several docking pylons extending outwards, beckoning enticingly towards ships to mate with them. Macen let T'Kir handle most of the station's operational requirements while Grace handled the navigational chores. He blearily studied the station's layout, envying T'Kir's Vulcan stamina.

Each onion served a different purpose. The upper module served Kresh and Federation military needs. The lower module was devoted to commercial, scientific, and cultural exchanges. Each could detach itself from the other and still function unimpaired.

They were assigned to the central pylon that linked the two modules. This was fitting for their assumed status as a commercial scout. It also placed them well within reach of Starfleet and the Kresh officials if they wanted to query them as to their progress. Only the station commander, Captain Ovid Petris, knew of their true mission and identity.

Macen pinched the bridge of his nose as he gathered his thoughts and rested his burning eyes. He wasn't as young as he'd been a century ago and staying up all night without an appropriate amount of adrenaline accompanying the experience was not as easy as it used to be. When he opened his eyes, he glanced T'Kir's way and caught her yawning.

He took an inordinate amount of glee from the fact she was as miserable as he was. Although he knew he was responsible for her current weariness, it would distract her from needling him on how he'd chosen to spend his evening. He reconsidered what her reaction would be once she discovered how he'd spent his evening and decided that he might prefer needling. Her jealous fits had faded, but she was still rather territorial regarding him especially with Danan gone. He understood her reaction, since they were the closest analogues to family either of them had.

Daggit rubbed his scalp wearily. That had been one of the longest duty shifts of his life. Several of the juniors had complimented him on it and he was relieved. They apparently had ignored his nervousness and concentrated instead on how he'd dealt with them. As a former grunt, he avoided squashing juniors whenever possible.

The _Odyssey_ had docked and Daggit posted a shore leave rotation. T'Kir glared indiscriminately at anyone and everyone after learning she had the bridge for the rest of her watch. Dracas and the engineering crew would stay aboard to sound out the ship's equipment. Most of the juniors would get at least two hours aboard the station.

Kort would be picking up additional med supplies. The doctor had been irate upon discovering he only had an EMH mark 2 for an assistant. He was determined to procure more emergency kits. He'd also muttered something about finding a programmer as he left.

Daggit and Nerrit would wander the station. Their goal was to obtain information from local traders on recent events in nearby sectors. Macen and Grace had the dubious honour of dealing with Customs. They had a conference with Petris afterwards supposedly to discuss local regulations regarding exploration.

Macen and Grace appeared at Petris' office after a gruelling hour with Customs. Macen had discovered the advantages of being Starfleet. He'd never officially posed as a private ship captain for Starfleet before. He wondered how anyone dealt with myopic officials and terabytes of forms without becoming homicidal.

Petris recognised the weary expression upon their faces as they entered his office and smiled. He was a swarthy man. Short with a portly build, he'd that had spent his career in station and starbase administration. His dark hair was reduced to a few wispy strands atop his head and even these were shot through with silver. He wore a thick moustache that reminded Macen of pictures he'd seen of several Terran dictators of the 20th and 21st centuries.

"Come in." he said warmly, gesturing towards a couch facing his desk, "Do come in."

He pointed towards a porcelain carafe, "Do you desire coffee? This is the real thing. North African beans brought to the station and then personally ground fresh for brewing."

Macen smiled affably at the Commander's enthusiasm. The man's Mediterranean roots were being purposefully displayed in every decorative choice in the office. Although T'Kir in particular would have died before admitting it, she displayed similar behaviour regarding her own roots. It seemed to be a peculiarity of Federation members.

He stifled the impulse to chuckle dryly, _It's not my fault they were born on the wrong side of the galaxy_.

"Captain, you seem very amused." Petris commented, "Would you care to elaborate?"

Macen waved his hand in protest while adopting a wry expression, "I've just been awake far too long and the missions just begun."

Petris smiled appreciatively, "I've felt that way every day since my arrival. Take heart. At least the Kresh are sincere in their desire to develop closer ties with the Federation. They should provide almost any assistance you desire."

Grace shuddered at the memories his words dredged up. Her first assignment as a junior officer on a deep space assignment when her ship, the _Robert April_, had conducted a survey on the Kresh's borders. They'd definitely wanted to develop closer ties then. Her mind still twisted around the group sexual activity the Kresh envoys had suggested as a way of "breaking the ice". They'd described things even Bolians, Deltans, and Rigellians would have qualms about.

Petris noticed her reaction and hesitated, "Is there a problem, Ensign?"

Her posture became rigid and her face reddened, "Of course not."

""Then I'll assume it is safe to begin my briefing regarding local conditions and regulations." Petris announced grimly.

* * *

Daggit and Nerrit wandered about. The Bajoran was fast gaining respect for the Angosian's instincts. The same indoctrination techniques that made him a superior soldier were proving invaluable as an undercover agent. He had an incomparable ability to sense danger.

She'd seen the type on Bajor. The oldest Resistance fighters had survived to get old by developing similar talents. Those that had joined the Militia had proven to be formidable adversaries to malcontents trying to exploit Bajor's wounded society after the Cardassian withdrawal. Bajor's growing revitalisation owed a great deal to such people.

Daggit was nearly old enough to be Nerrit's father. His granite face was heavily lined. His right temple still bore the tattoo his people's engineer's had placed in their elite soldiers to designate who had received the "enhancements" thought necessary to win the war. He wore his hair cropped to a fine stubble.

His steel grey eyes searched every nook and cranny as they passed by. He noted the way people moved and how they reacted with one another. Nerrit had no doubts that every detail was burned into his memory just in case such data became useful for survival. Having dealt with Klingons and faced both the Cardassians and the Jem'Hadar, she could honestly say that none of them had rivalled the sheer sense of lethality that Daggit projected. She thanked the Prophets that she did not have to face him in combat. She had little doubts as to who would win such an encounter.

They'd spent the last two hours gaining a feel for the locals. Several of them had made suggestions to Nerrit that had made Wen's cheeks burn. Bajorans were a deeply spiritual people, as the Kresh were rumoured to be. However, the theological discussions that had been offered had little to do with any form of theology Nerrit knew of.

Daggit had dispersed the last gathering of the "faithful" that had made Nerrit cringe even though it was issued on her behalf. They had successfully learned the location of the local pub and eatery. Every station had one recreational site that was the hub of social life and trade aboard. On _DS9_, it had been Quark's. On _DS13_, it was Theron's.

Nerrit had actually set foot in Quark's once during a six month tour aboard the station during the closing months of the war. She had found the Ferengi proprietor to be cheerful, if tiresome in his attempts to persuade her to buy unwanted trinkets or diversions. The only pleasant memory of her visit had been her conversation with a fellow patron named Morn. He'd regaled her for hours with tales of his trading runs through the quadrant.

She straightened her shoulders as she and Daggit prepared to enter Theron's. She reminded herself that the Kresh were a civilised race. She needed to be respectful of their cultural differences and beliefs. She saw children entering and leaving. How bad could it be?

* * *

A chime interrupted Petris' discussion with Macen and Grace. He stepped away from the wall display he was using for territorial charts. He excused himself, stepped behind his desk and proceeded to have a low conversation with someone on the built-in comm system. Macen and Danan occupied themselves by discussing the finer points of a few navigational anomalies.

Petris approached them with a wry expression on his face, "It seems your presence has been requested by the Constabulary, Captain."

"Trouble with my crew?" Macen asked ruefully.

Petris nodded gravely.

"Let me guess, Kort?" Petris shook his head.

"Daggit?" Macen asked with a tinge of irritation. Petris shook his head.

"One of my juniors?" Macen asked, growing confused. Petris shook his head. Grace cleared her throat and tapped the bridge of her nose. Macen's jaw fell.

"Nerrit?" he asked in bewilderment.

Petris' cheshire grin was answer enough


	5. Chapter 5

66

Uprising

T'Kir read the traffic flash update on the padd she held. She'd swivelled the command chair sideways and had her legs draped over the console to the seat's right. She snickered as she read the request the Kresh constables had sent for Macen's presence. He thought that he'd make his life easier by leaving her aboard.

_Well, shows him doesn't it?_ She thought with satisfaction, _The little Bajoran princess is just as much trouble as the rest of us. _T'Kir had queried the computer as to Macen's location last night to discover he was alone in the Mess with their new exchange officer. It had irked her that he'd made her work while he spent time with a stranger.

T'Kir's lips twisted at that thought. She knew she wasn't being fair. Macen had stuck his neck out for her since they'd first met. She could never repay him for the opportunities he'd provided for her.

She also realised that his current position had to be difficult for him. Macen wasn't exactly known for following Starfleet regulations. He'd joined in the last decade of the 23rd century and still reflected the operational mentality of that era. Riding herd on a group of individualistic rabble-rousers had to be hard on him since he was traditionally the chief rabble-rouser around.

Starfleet Intelligence had always been the most pragmatic branch of Starfleet. Undercover work demanded that they be willing to participate in activities that typical officers would condemn. Analytical work demanded a degree of objectivity that could alienate others outside Intelligence's private domain. They walked a tightrope while attempting to balance the ends and the means.

Starfleet's ideals had grown loftier over the course of the 24th century. Other service branches increasingly looked down upon Intelligence. The loyal agents continued to venture into harm's way with little or no support. They chalked up an enviable reputation among rival organisations and criminal cartels like the Orion Syndicate for their success rate. But they were looked down upon at home because duplicity was a weapon of choice.

That fact that starship captains commonly employed lies and false identities in the course of their duties mattered little to the critics. Starfleet was a paragon of the Federation's ideals, it was claimed, they had little use for falsehoods when they had the combined might of the Federation behind them. The arrival of the Borg, the crisis over the Maquis, and the war with the Dominion had opened a few eyes in political offices everywhere.

T'Kir knew that Starfleet Command still had no idea of what to do with Macen. He had too much credit with the Federation Council after discovering the Gulag crisis. Command had been ready to retire him for his involvement with the Maquis. They would have earlier if they hadn't needed him to participate in a suicide mission of gathering intelligence behind enemy lines.

She'd sat out the war in the Andes Mental Sciences Institute. Typically, the rare Vulcan mental patient was sent home. As a former "terrorist", Starfleet wasn't about to let her off Earth. They'd never counted on Macen breaking her out of there.

T'Kir had finally given up on any chance of fulfilling her more carnal fantasies about Macen just in time for Lisea Danan to resign Starfleet and leave Macen's life. She'd desired it for years, but the act carried a stinging sense of loss that T'Kir despised. T'Kir and Danan had never got along very well and it irked the Vulcan to feel saddened by her departure. The Vulcan hoped the Trill would take a few host bodies sorting out any mental anguish she'd caused.

T'Kir craned her neck to one side until she heard a satisfying "crack". Her lips pursed together as she contemplated a diagnostic she'd just run on the LCARS interfaces across the ship. Their performance times could be much faster. T'Kir had only a marginal grasp on Vulcan propriety, but she damn well knew starship systems.

One part of her mind began devising software changes to enhance performance as another part of her mind contemplated how to get Macen's attention. He had never responded to her blatant attempts. She wondered if he'd respond to subtlety. The problem was that she had no idea what the subtle approach consisted of.

Humans were easy. They found Vulcans exotic. The very notion of a Vulcan willing to display emotion and engage in recreational sex was enough to wrap one, or more, around her finger. El-Aurians were harder.

She couldn't read his cursed mind very easily. It had been difficult even when her telepathy hadn't been tapered by medicinal means to a manageable background hum. Unlike a human, whose every fantasy was hers for the reading, she knew very little about what intrigued him. She also knew that by couching her fascination with him in purely sexual terms she could avoid the true cause of her feelings for him.

She'd fallen in love with him the moment she'd met him. The universe had dealt Macen one tragedy after another and he refused to surrender. He always came back and struck the universe harder than it had him. She did know that other Vulcans would undoubtedly frown upon her seemingly futile quest. She shrugged that thought aside.

_When didn't the average Vulcan frown upon her life?_ She wondered to herself.

* * *

Petris led the way to Theron's Place. On the outside, it appeared very calm. The truth was revealed upon entering. Macen assumed that it had been an inviting establishment, once. That had changed decidedly. Now every shop window was shattered and several pieces of furniture lay strewn across the Promenade in front of the establishment.

A half dozen Kresh were gathered in the wreckage of several tables and chairs. Debris from shattered decanters and glasses littered the floor. The Kresh typically stood at a height of at least 140cm. They were bipedal with six multi-jointed limbs.

They walked upon two powerful double-kneed legs and were renowned for their leaping ability. It made sense to Grace, since the Kresh were related to an amphibian reminiscent of Terran frogs. They also had a triangular head with thick lips and upraised nostrils. Their primary limbs were double-jointed as well, with three long fingers and an opposable thumb. Their other set of limbs extended out from their mid-section and were a quarter of the length of the primaries, with tiny fingers.

They wore simple loincloths at their waist as well as elaborate turbans atop their heads. They were wider than they were tall. The stout bodies of the Kresh were almost entirely composed of muscle. Only a masochist ever truly desired an opportunity to engage a Kresh in unarmed combat.

Two of the Kresh were aiming weapons of native manufacture at Daggit. Daggit sat atop a table looking nonchalant. Macen knew how deceiving appearances could be regarding an Angosian. Daggit could, and would, launch himself into lethal motion with little or no warning.

Three more Kresh stood watch over Nerrit while the last took statements from witnesses. Wen looked miserable. Macen was glad to see the remorse in her eyes. He was also disturbed to see weapons aimed at his people.

"I don't think there'll be trouble." He spoke up, "You can stop pointing your weapons at my people."

The Kresh taking statements was the only one that moved. The others remained as they were. The Chief Constable's eyes briefly passed over Macen. After a moment, he made a croaking chirp and his officers lowered their weapons.

"You are their commanding officer?"

"I'm the captain of the ship they work on." Macen answered.

"The proprietor is willing to forgo charges if they compensate him for damages."

"Certainly." Macen agreed, "Have him send a bill to my ship."

"Easily done." the Constable replied.

Macen's face grew grim, "How did it start?"

The Constable shook his head sadly, "Many of our people have heard of the deep spirituality of the Bajorans. Several worshippers gathered here invited your Nerrit Wen to join them in their practices. She did not respond well."

Macen took another cursory glance at the wreckage around him, "I'd say she didn't."

Macen turned back to the Constable, "Are they free to go."

"Yes." the Constable answered, "Provided they proceed directly to your vessel and stay aboard. Their dockside privileges have been rescinded."

Macen gave the Constable a wry smile, "I don't think that will pose a problem."

"That is good." the Constable continued amiably before adding, "Two of my agents will accompany your crew to your berth."

Macen's eyes flickered darkly. The Kresh's colour shifted slightly, a sign of his discomfort. A muscle in Macen's cheek pulsed slightly as he bit down his anger. He broke into a rueful grin when he'd mastered his reaction.

"I can see your point. When will they be ready?"

"As soon as you are."

Macen nodded. He turned and met Daggit's eyes for a moment. Daggit's expression remained impassive but his eyes projected a dry appreciation for the situation. Nerrit's face was a frozen mask, revealing nothing.

Macen led the way back to the ship. Daggit, Grace and Nerrit followed closely on his heels. The two Kresh security officers brought up the rear. Macen stopped at the docking collar as his crew proceeded onto the ship.

"If I can have my officer's comm badges?" he asked with an outstretched hand.

The Kresh returned the badges without comment. They strode off without further comment. Macen studied them as they left. He stifled a sigh as he turned to board the ship.

* * *

Macen sat alone in the Briefing Room. He'd just finished discussing the day's events with Daggit. Having heard his account, Macen wanted to discuss matters with Nerrit alone. This was going to be an informal test of both the woman's character and training.

She entered the room and immediately put herself at attention. Macen was halfway sitting on the conference table and was amused by the contrast in their posture. He stood up and began to circle her. He could see the muscles in her cheek and throat clenching.

"Do you have any testimony to offer in defence before I render a verdict?" he asked.

"Has the Captain been informed off what the Kresh asked... what they wanted... of what they wanted _me_ to participate in?" she asked with revulsion in her voice.

"Welcome to the wider world of the Alpha Quadrant." Macen replied dryly.

Her head snapped around and her jaw hung open until she caught herself and returned to her stoic pose. Macen chuckled softly.

"You're not on Bajor any more Lieutenant." his voice was low but firm, "Your beliefs are very important to you. That does not give you permission to attack others that do not share them."

"Sir, they asked me to mate with them!" her voice was frantic, "With _all_ of them!"

Macen unsuccessfully tried to hide a grin, "In ancient times, the Kresh were hunted by a larger predator species. Until they developed tools and weapons capable of fending off the predators, their only defence was their rapid reproductive cycle. They celebrated every birth and held it in reverence, for it guaranteed the survival of their species in a very tangible and personal way. Even though they no longer face immediate extinction, the cultural emphasis remains."

"They said it was worship!" Nerrit protested, "Reproduction is not worship!"

"Not on Bajor." Macen corrected, "The Kresh see the universe as a literal extension of the Pond their society ascended from. Every facet of life is an act of worship as they swim the Great Pond."

"That's fine for them." Nerrit growled in exasperation, "Why ask me to join in? And why indulge in the middle of a restaurant?"

"Their native language has no words for modesty or for sex." Macen replied, "These concepts are foreign to them. Since constant reproduction is no longer required for survival, they now see it as a conduit for sociability. They view the experience as a sharing of mind, body and soul. They want to share themselves and their culture freely with others."

"Yeah, they like to share." Nerrit retorted sourly.

"And you can say 'no' without resorting to violence." Macen admonished, "You can respect another races' cultures, beliefs, and opinions without subscribing to them."

A hint of a smirk played at Nerrit's lips, "A bit like helping rebuild Cardassia without becoming a Cardassian."

Macen grinned at that. It was one of the cosmos' greater ironies that the Cardassians were utterly dependent upon the Bajorans as the funnel for the reconstruction effort. The race they had ground under their heel now held the future of the entire Cardassian race in their hands. Although the Bajorans had been woefully tempted to close their borders to slowly choke the Cardassians to death, they had chosen to rebuild the relations between the two races at the same time the Cardassians rebuilt their ruined worlds.

"Something like that." Macen agreed, "The question is, why didn't you know any of this?"

That startled her, "What?"

"Why didn't you familiarise yourself with Kresh customs?"

"I just never..." her voice drifted off.

"That's right." Macen replied sternly, "You didn't think. That's something we can't afford. You have to be smarter. Our lives depend upon it. You have to keep an open mind. Narrow thinking and close-mindeness will get you killed."

"You must be able to think like both your enemies and your allies." his voice was hard and inflexible, "This enables you to outwit your opponent and draws you closer to your ally."

Nerrit nodded, "I understand."

"No." he snapped, stepping in close, "Its not enough to understand it _here_." he pointed at his skull, "You have to understand here."

He pointed at her breast and smiled, "It must become instinct and instinct is born in the heart." Nerrit swallowed and met his eyes.

"You can go now." he said softly.

She hesitated, then started out the door.

"Just stay out of any more trouble." He called after her before the doors closed behind her.

* * *

Daggit handled the undocking procedures. His crew needed the experience and it was their rotation. Macen monitored their progress from the Briefing Room. T'Kir and Grace watched as well.

Kort was busy amusing himself in Sickbay. Macen hoped he'd stay sober enough to be able to treat an injury without inflicting more damage. He shook his head. Kort couldn't manage that _sober_. Being drunk might improve his bedside manner.

Daggit murmured approval to himself as he watched the relief Tactical officer on the bridge. Macen pitied Ensign Simms more than the rest. Daggit was a Strategic and Tactical Specialist. With both the ship's XO and immediate superior riding herd atop her, she didn't have much margin for error.

T'Kir chortled to herself as Ensign Chadwick pressed the wrong button at Ops and re-engaged the docking clamps. Macen gave her stern glance but his heart wasn't really in it. The systems were designed to prevent that kind of mishap. Chadwick had to get his act together or he might inadvertently blow up the ship.

Chadwick's mistake was the last. Departures from a station were always highly regulated. Surprisingly enough, in contrast to the general flow of history, civilian craft in the Federation were under stricter traffic controls then their military counterparts. These controls were in place to protect civilian pilots that may have little or no training.

Macen switched off the monitor when it became apparent that the rest of the departure would run smoothly. Grace left, shaking her head and chuckling softly. T'Kir started to follow with a grin that Macen knew all too well. She was about to cause trouble.

"T'Kir." he growled a warning.

Her shoulders slumped, "What?"

"Don't say anything to Chadwick concerning his mistakes."

She spun to face him, "C'mon, the man's completely dim!"

"He's also young and inexperienced." Macen defended.

"That wasn't an excuse used in the Maquis." she retorted.

To her surprise, Macen laughed, "Yes, it was. Inexperience was blamed for every operation gone sour. We were just damn lucky that more people weren't killed by their own stupidity. We lost too many that way as it was."

Her eyes narrowed, "It still bothers you that we lost."

She saw a flicker of fire in his eyes as he answered, "Yes, it does. If that had been the end of it, that would be fine. Now, we're facing the same battle again."

"You're talking about against the Federation?" she asked in surprise.

He nodded, "The war has changed Starfleet. It opened their eyes to a lot of things, but it also frightened them. Fear is driving them to make changes that make Cardassian appeasement look downright benign."

Her head shifted slightly to the side, "You think they'll nurture the Dominion back to health?"

His laugh was bitter, "The Dominion has never been unhealthy. If the Prophets hadn't sealed the Wormhole, we'd have been overwhelmed by the Jem'Hadar. I think we're safe from the Dominion for now. That virus, and Odo's return to the Great Link, will keep the Founder's in check for awhile."

"Then what are you worried about?"

"I've noticed that Starfleet is starting to throw its weight around more." he said slowly, "They've seen their own mortality. They're trying to gather allies as fast as they can, regardless of cultural or technological differences. Races that would have only been eligible for First Contact before are now instantly admitted as a protectorate or signed as an ally. They're moving too fast."

"Like the Kresh?" her eyebrow arched.

"Like the Kresh." he admitted with a rueful smile, "We barely understand them. Rather than establish a cultural mission, we base a large military presence here."

"The Andergani _are_ next door, figuratively speaking." T'Kir reminded him dryly.

"But they're a known quantity." Macen replied, "They've never warranted this kind of presence before, and I doubt they warrant it now."

She shook her head, "And we're in Starfleet _because_...?"

"To keep these damn fools from destroying themselves." he snorted.

"Good luck." she replied sourly, "Chadwick's performance seems to be the rule rather than the exception."

"Which is why we need to help him bring his performance up without humiliating him." Macen said with a grin, "He'll never learn if he's hiding in his room, afraid to come out for fear of being mocked."

She gave him a wry smirk, "You're a sneaky bastard."

He just stared at her. She shrugged, "Okay, I'll leave him alone."

"Thanks." he said with a lop-sided smirk. Now if he could what Grace's smirk had been about. She'd been a relatively junior officer on board for his last mission to investigate the Gulag. He'd never spent much time learning much about her. He knew she'd been both startled and pleased to assist him with the Customs paperwork and then to accompany him to Petris' office. T'Kir seemed to get along with her well enough. He'd have to ask her more about their Chief Helmsman.

Daggit was pleased with the crew's performance, despite Chadwick's less than stellar performance. The rest of Beta shift was shaping up nicely. Life was looking good, and then the distress call came. The rest of the day was about to go to hell.


	6. Chapter 6

81

Uprising

Spencer licked his lips in anticipation. The freighter his starships were stalking had already been captured by a competitor. A competitor that Spencer wanted to see dead. He'd already destroyed Larnack's raider, now it was time to capture the freighter and destroy the Ktaarian himself.

Unlike Spencer's typical prey, Larnack was well aware of the true loyalties and objectives of the _USS Manticore_, _USS Horatio Nelson_, and _USS Buzz Aldrin. _His ship had immediately opened fire on the starships while Larnack began transmitting a distress call. The smaller, more manoeuvrable scoutship was able to distract the larger starships long enough for Larnack to get a subspace signal off. Spencer cursed the Starfleet engineers that had programmed the communication array with lockouts preventing the jamming of a distress call.

Deep in the recesses of the dark hole he called his heart, Spencer knew the fault lay with him. He'd never considered rewriting the comm protocols at the same time they rewrote the command codes. Now they'd paid a price for his oversight. The target was fleeing and had transmitted a signal that could provoke a real Starfleet response.

Spencer leaned forward in his seat as his helmsman pushed the ship after the lumbering freighter. The scout had been destroyed. The _Aldrin_ suffered minor damage in the engagement. She'd affect repairs as the _Manticore_ and the _Nelson_ pursued her target.

* * *

"What've we got on scanners?" Macen asked.

"Long-range sensors have detected the source if the distress signal." T'Kir reported, "It is a freighter with Bolian registration, the _SS Barituu_."

"Any sign of why they activated a Priority One distress?"

"It might have something to do with the two Federation starships chasing it." T'Kir replied dryly.

* * *

"Sir," Joe Alberts, Spencer's Tactical 1st spoke up, "sensors have detected an incoming ship."

"Starfleet?" Spencer asked apprehensively.

"No, sir" Alberts replied, "A civilian craft. It appears to be a decommissioned Starfleet scoutship."

Spencer's terse expression shifted into a predatory smile, "Well, it seems our bounty may have just doubled. Can you determine what class of ship it is?"

"The computer labels it a _Blackbird_-class scout."

Spencer thought about that. The scouts had been built at the beginning of the 24th century. Most of them were being retired as the new _Sabre_-class assumed its border patrol duties. Even stripped for civilian service, the scout would still boast a powerful warpcore that could easily power any weapons they saw fit to install."

"Prepare to hail them." Spencer ordered, "Standby to target their warp drive. I want to capture this one and press her into service."

"Aye, sir." Alberts acknowledged with a leering grin.

* * *

"They're hailing us." Nerrit announced.

"The question is, who are they?" Macen asked.

"The signal is on general frequencies but the ships are both Starfleet."

"Run their names through the computer." Macen said towards T'Kir, "I want to know who these ships are and what they're doing out here."

"You suspect something?" Nerrit asked, her professional paranoia tickling.

"Petris didn't mention any Starfleet vessels being nearby." Macen explained, "It could've been an oversight. It can't hurt to check while I talk to them."

The viewer shifted to a close up of a portly man without any hair save a Van Dyke beard. It was grey and the man sat with an air of assumed importance. He wore Starfleet command divisional colours and the four insignia pins of a captain. The image struck Macen as being wrong.

"Greetings." the "Captain" spoke, "I'm Captain Herbert Spencer, commanding officer of the _USS Manticore_. Thank you for responding to the _Barituu's_ distress call, but as you can see, we have the situation well under control."

Macen rose an eyebrow, "Captain, it appears as though the _Barituu_ is running from you."

Spencer barked a brittle laugh, "Fair observation, Captain...?"

"Macen." he allowed.

"Well, Captain Macen, you just missed the exciting part where raiders captured this freighter and then attacked us as we responded to her crew's calls for aid."

"I see." Macen said tactfully. He didn't want Spencer to catch scent of his suspicions yet. The man had a vole-like quality. He looked capable of stealing whatever lay in front of him and then running like hell.

"Perhaps I should simply leave and not distract you further?" Macen suggested.

Spencer weighed the suggestion for several moments before replying, "No, that shouldn't be necessary. You will be in no danger."

"Thank you for your guarantee." Macen said, suppressing a shudder. Spencer's smile reminded him a constrictor slowly squeezing its prey, "We'll adjust our course to avoid you and your quarry."

"Thank you, Captain." Spencer purred, "I'll contact you when this is over."

The screen switched back to the space lying before them. On maximum magnification, the fleeing "fox" and the chasing "hounds" could be seen. The freighter was a tube with warp nacelles. It was obvious that it would never outpace the older _Miranda_, much less the newer _New Orleans_.

The _Miranda_-variant dated from the same era as the _Odyssey_. The original design dated back a century to the late 2270s. The _New Orleans_ dated in from the mid-24th century and was related to the _Ambassador_-class the way a _Nebula_-class was the more versatile cousin of the _Galaxy_-class.

Whoever was aboard that freighter knew they would never escape, but had started their flight with their distress beacon wailing. Without the beacon, the freighter captain may have been able to hide. With the beacon transmitting, there was no evasion. That meant the beacon was the reason behind the flight and pursuit.

Macen's gut clenched as he put these suspicions together. The freighter was running in order to keep its beacon broadcasting. The starships were pursuing in order to shut it down before a signal reached _DS13_ and Starfleet responded. It was a nice theory, but it needed more facts to support it other than the fact Spencer came across like a Ferengi-Orion crossbreed.

"Anything on their ship IDs?" he asked T'Kir.

T'Kir smiled grimly, it was a chilling sight, "The computer identifies them as the _USS Manticore_ and the _USS Horatio Nelson_."

"Are they really Starfleet?"

"They were." _That_ drew a sharp glance from Macen, "They were listed as MIA after the defence of Betazed."

Macen's eyes went hard, "That certainly changes things. Are you running a sensor log of their activities?"

She nodded in the affirmative, making Macen smile, "Hit them with every active sensor we've got. If they're up to anything, that should shake them up."

T'Kir tapped a few controls. She frowned as she monitored her displays. Within seconds, she spotted anomalies that the Tactical scans had missed.

"Skipper, we've got trouble." her tone carried her concern although her facial expression never changed, "I'm detecting two Class 14 torpedoes aboard the _Manticore_."

Macen froze for a second. Class 14s were the largest thing in Starfleet's inventory. Powerful enough to create a subspace tear, they were rarely distributed and even more rarely used. Admiral Hwrath had been desperate indeed during the final battles against the Dominion regarding Betazoid territory.

The _Odyssey's _own quantum torpedo magazines were shielded in order to maintain the fiction that they'd been deactivated. Although far more powerful than any photon torpedo, they paled before a Class 14 neutron torpedo. Theoretically, a neutron torpedo could be launched against a planetary surface with devastating effect.

The subspace rift would literally suck a portion of the planet's crust away and release the magma lying beneath the surface. The tectonic forces released would devastate continents and be felt across entire globes. Larger planets would be permanently altered. Smaller bodies, such as habitable moons, would be rendered lifeless.

"Sir!" Grace said urgently, "One of the starships has altered course and is now inbound on an intercept course."

"Looks like we rattled them." Macen murmured darkly. He began issuing orders, "Raise shields and arm phasers. T'Kir, keep me informed of what happens to that freighter. Grace, evasive manoeuvres. Keep space between us and that _Miranda_."

"Nerrit, hail them." Macen growled.

"No reply." Nerrit responded, "They're locking phasers."

"They've opened fire on the freighter." Danan reported, "The freighter is damaged."

Grace threw the scout into a rolling cartwheel around the starship. It fired phasers, but was unable to hit its erratic prey. Macen ordered Nerrit to return fire. The _Odyssey_ struck two blows unopposed before the _Nelson _struck back.

"Shields holding at 84 percent." Nerrit reported.

"Target their weapons." Macen snapped off, "T'Kir, what's the freighter's status?"

"A lot of subspace communications." She reported, "The _Manticore_ has inflicted several hull breaches. Every section but the bridge is streaming air."

"Have you intercepted any of those transmissions?"

T'Kir was tapping at her console furiously, "No, but I have patched a comm link into the _Nelson's_ main computer. We may be able to shut her down if we override her command codes."

Macen grinned. It was streaks of brilliance like this that redeemed T'Kir's other aberrations. The Special Investigations Division had access to a series of codes that could lock any Starfleet computer system. They were meant to place records in stasis for further investigation without the risk of deletion. An unexpected benefit was that the system would be temporarily unresponsive as it locked all its memory archive from all access. It would require a retrieval code to access or delete the ship's memory.

He turned to the data terminal beside him and tapped in the codes known only to Daggit and himself. He transmitted them across the link T'Kir had established. They all waited for a breathless moment to see if they'd been successful. Nerrit was the first to pronounce success.

"Their shields are down and the weapons deactivated!"

"Hit their weapons while we have the chance!" Macen ordered, "Grace, set course for _Manticore_."

"The freighter has been destroyed." T'Kir snarled suddenly, dampening the flush of success, "They beamed the freighter's cargo from its holds and then used photon torpedoes to destroy her."

"Was her crew still aboard?"

T'Kir nodded angrily. Macen's eyes tracked back to the screen. A cold, contemptuous rage built within him. Killing a resistant foe was one thing, slaughtering a helpless crew just floating in space was another. It served only one function, the elimination of witnesses.

It was an act of calculated coldness. It blended the mentalities of the Borg and the Cardassians. It was mechanically utilitarian while being personalised. Both were racial imperatives Macen had spent a better part of his life fighting. Spencer had just made an implacable foe.

Macen had not been concerned over the _Odyssey's _confrontation with the _Nelson_. The scout had faced a _Constitution_-class before under Macen's command. The _Miranda_-class variants were slightly more powerful than the legendary _Constitution_ design, but not significantly so. Facing a _New Orleans_ was another matter altogether.

Macen had faced Cardassian _Galor_-class warships in this scout. They rivalled the _Ambassador_ and _New Orleans_-classes for firepower. Fates knew the Maquis had faced enough of those in less equipped ships than the _Odyssey_. The enemy stayed the same, his species had merely changed.

Now wasn't the time for hesitation, it was a time for resolve. Resolve and split second decisions. He was about to find out how good this team was. He hoped they'd live up to their records.

"Lock torpedoes on target and fire at will." Macen ordered, "Helm, use attack pattern Theta 9."

Grace began the spiralling corkscrew that began the theta series. Nerrit fired torpedoes as fast as the magazines could load the two froward tubes. Phaser blasts accompanied the streaking torpedoes. Their shields shone with reactive energy as return fire struck.

The _Manticore _possessed more phaser arrays than the smaller _Nelson_. They were much more effective at hammering back at the _Odyssey_. The scout's agility and more powerful torpedoes gave it a slight advantage. Those advantages were severely offset by the renegade starship's power, speed, and stamina.

Starfleet tacticians across the fleet would consider pitting a scout with a maximum crew capacity of 22 persons against a cruiser with a crew capacity of 1,100 slightly ludicrous. Macen never thought twice about it. Defying conventional thinking had enabled him to survive against the Borg and the Cardassians. Most Starfleet officers tended to slide into operational ruts and Macen wanted to exploit that as much as possible.

"Sir!" Nerrit's voice was urgent, "The _Nelson_ has recovered her systems and is approaching to engage."

"T'Kir," Macen asked through the clamour of the battle, "do you have any signs of reinforcements en route?"

"No." her voice was dismal.

"Grace, get us out of here." Macen ordered unhappily, "Target aft torpedoes at the _Nelson_. We need to slow her approach. T'Kir, do what you can to scramble their systems."

Silence descended. There was nothing to be said now. Macen had to trust in his people's abilities. He watched the monitors, waiting for an opening to develop.

He cursed silently as none appeared. Unlike the more inflexible manoeuvres used by military units, these ships employed tactics designed to prevent escape. While that meant that they weren't trying to destroy the scour outright, it still narrowed their options considerably. The only favourable benefit was that the scout was given even more opportunities to inflict damage that could be exploited by Starfleet later.

On an intellectual level, Macen was impressed by the pirate's use of their tractor beams. Rather than try to grab hold of the scout, they projected beams that formed a perimeter. It reduced the scout's evasive options, making them a more presentable target. The scout shuddered and systems blew as weapons fire rained down upon it.

Nerrit's console exploded, hurling her into the bulkhead. The Helm exploded. Grace barely had time to get clear as it went up in flames. She escaped with minor burns.

"Engineering reports plasma leaks!" T'Kir shouted over wailing alarms, "Main power's offline, as well as warp engines."

T'Kir transferred Tactical controls to her station then shook her head, "Weapons are down."

"Same with propulsion." Macen replied grimly as he tapped his console in futility.

"Brin!" T'Kir's voice was urgent now, "Dracas reports an imminent core breach."

"Jettison the log buoy." He tapped the intercom, "All hands, this is the captain, abandon ship. I repeat, abandon ship."

He rose out of the command chair and went to Nerrit. He'd begun to lift her when T'Kir and Grace joined him. T'Kir helped him get the surprisingly muscled Bajoran up and an arm over each of their shoulders. Grace led the way towards the lift.

* * *

The first lifepod jettisoned with four officers from the second watch. The _Nelson_ destroyed it without a qualm. The captain, a former Maquis named Rachel Darnett, had no desire to take unnecessary prisoners. She already had a life sentence awaiting her in the Federation. Additional murders at this point would make little difference to her future if she were ever apprehended.

* * *

Dracas scrambled around Engineering. He desperately tried to slow the core breach. One of his juniors had died when the containment fields had failed for a split second. The other died when a coolant line ruptured, liquefying his flesh as it struck him. The two alter-watch engineers had arrived and were helping him erect a portable magnetic field projector. It wouldn't halt the intermix destabilisation underway, but it could slow it long enough for the crew to evacuate.

Dracas' hopes faded as he felt a transporter beam yank him out of material existence. He regained solidity to discover several men brandishing weapons surrounded him. He tried to ask where he'd been taken when one of them struck him in the jaw with a disrupter.

They marched him off in silence. Every step of the way, Dracas wondered how his ship was doing. The _Odyssey_ refit had been his baby every step of the way. She was also the first ship he'd ever taken out after working on her. Her destruction generated a sense of loss akin to the loss of a child within the stoic engineer.

* * *

Macen and T'Kir struggled to get Nerrit to a nearby pod when Daggit happened by. He had Kort and two junior officers in tow. Kort immediately began examining Nerrit as the juniors took over supporting him. Macen noticed that no Engineering personnel were present and mentioned it to T'Kir and Daggit.

Both wore worried expressions. Daggit spoke first "I don't know. I could go look for them."

Macen shook his head, "Get these people out of here, Lieutenant. I'll check Engineering."

"Sir..."

"Bloody hell! You have your orders." Macen snapped as he strode off. T'Kir and Grace followed. He turned to find them behind him. He scowled and his face darkened as his emotions mounted, "What d'you think you're doing?"

"Helping." T'Kir replied before Grace could finish blinking in surprise, "You might need help if they're injured."

"Besides which," T'Kir continued, "we wouldn't have been able to squeeze into that coffin of a pod with all the rest anyway. If we're gonna die, we might as well do it aboard rather in that ration can."

"And we're the only other ones that know this ship as well as you do." she reminded him.

Macen gave them a grimace, "C'mon then."

They reached Engineering to find the main door open. One engineer was left alive. He was staggering towards the door but collapsed several metres from it. Macen charged in.

He helped the engineer to his feet and half dragged, half carried the wounded man down the corridor. A high pitched whine began to wail forth from Engineering. T'Kir's face lost colour. Grace paled.

"It's the rad containment system." T'Kir commented, "Its about to overload."

"Go!" Macen shouted as he tried to accelerate. T'Kir grabbed Grace and dragged her further down the corridor. Grace resisted all the way.

"What are you doing?" she demanded to know when T'Kir released her.

"There are shield emitters placed 100 metres beyond the entrance." T'Kir explained breathlessly, watching Macen's progress, "We should be safe here, as long as the system's still working."

"We can't leave him!" Grace protested passionately and started forward.

T'Kir reached out and slammed her against the bulkhead using a single arm, "Don't be stupid! If we get exposed, we'll be of no use to them if they get hit."

"They'll die." Grace growled, "_He'll_ die.

T'Kir's face blanched, then she recovered, "Macen's a survivor. He won't die today. Not like this. Besides, d'you really think he wants us in harm's way of this?"

Grace answered with stony silence.

A burst of energy sailed forth from Engineering and flooded the corridor. Macen and the Engineering rating had been centimetres from the shield projectors that engaged. Grace and T'Kir both stood behind the energy wall that protected them. Thick liquid sprayed out from the ceiling, neutralising the heavy isotopes.

The shield dropped and T'Kir sprang forward. Her fingers flew to Macen's neck. She broke into a bright smile. She then hefted him up like a sack and threw him over her shoulder.

"He's alive."

"Thank God." Grace sighed in relief. T'Kir's eyes burned towards her for a second, then softened. Grace knew how protective T'Kir was towards him. She'd quickly discovered her friend's unwavering devotion to her commander.

"What about the other man?" Grace asked glancing back towards the body.

"Dead." T'Kir replied without hesitation.

"How can you tell?" Grace asked accusingly, "You never checked."

"I'm a Vulcan m'dear." T'Kir replied dryly, "Only a Ferengi has better hearing than me. The man has no heartbeat."

"You checked Captain Macen." She replied without considering her words.

T'Kir's eyes bulged for a second. "I heard a heartbeat." T'Kir explained as she recomposed herself, "I wanted to make sure I wasn't just imagining it."

"So now what?" Grace asked a moment later..

"We get the hell out of here." T'Kir answered firmly.

* * *

Spencer saw the second lifepod eject. It was followed several minutes later by another. He'd ordered his gunners to stand down. He wanted to know how a survey vessel had acquired quantum torpedoes.

He watched the helpless pods as they drifted away. He literally held the power over their lives and deaths in his hands. It was an invigorating realisation. Every time he was in this position, the rush of power nearly overwhelmed him.

His hand hovered over the comm switch. He lusted for their deaths. He wanted to give the word, wanted to exercise his power. His heart hardened and his finger drifted down towards the control.

"Darnett to Spencer." The comm speakers spoke up.

He tapped the switch in irritation, "Spencer here."

"We have three Starfleet vessels approaching at Warp 9."

"ETA?"

"Under two minutes." Darnett replied sourly, "Shall we destroy the pods?"

No." Spencer replied with a pang of disappointment, "They'll stop to pick them up. That will give us time to escape. Set course for the _Aldrin_ and get out of here at maximum warp."

"You got it. _Nelson_ out."

Spencer cursed to himself as he saw the pods drift away. The scout exploded suddenly in a brilliant flash as the warpcore detonated. Denied his cargo, his prize ship, and his chance to kill those that had wounded his ships. He felt a bitter hatred the likes of which he hadn't experienced since the _Manticore's _captain had died. He was a patient man. He would avenge himself. He would rip the identities of this crew from the engineer they'd captured.


	7. Chapter 7

94

Uprising

Two guards in front and two to the rear flanked Dracas. They weren't marching him to the brig. He knew the layout of a _New Orleans_-class intimately. He'd served aboard an _Ambassador_-class for eight years. They were on their way to the Cargo Bays.

Dracas didn't know how these thugs had got aboard a starship, but they definitely weren't Starfleet. As they rounded a corner and approached the door labelled Cargo 1, he saw a man whose posture screamed "Fleet". The engineer entered the Cargo Bay with preternatural sense of calm. The descendent of a labour class, physical discomfort was a racial memory.

A large section of the bay was cleared. A strange conflagration of pipes was fitted together in the centre of the room. It was hinged in several spots, allowing its shape to be altered. It also possessed various restraints attached to numerous pipes. It was obviously an interrogation device of some kind.

"Strip." The Starfleet man ordered.

Dracas paused and received a blow to the head for it. He shrugged and removed his uniform. He was ordered to continue and he shed his undergarments as well. He stood naked before them and wondered if this was supposed to embarrass him.

Troglytes lived in communal work camps and mine shafts. He'd been raised in an environment where nudity was not taboo, merely a potential work hazard. He could see that his lack of response irritated his captors. He smiled inwardly, he vowed not to give them any response whatsoever throughout his interrogation.

He was ordered to the restraint system and ordered to raise his arms. His wrists and ankles were shackled, forcing him to stand in an X. His calm, level gaze met the ex-Starfleet man's. They regarded each other coldly for several seconds before the pirate spoke.

"Bring them in." was all the pirate said.

Four men and two women entered. One male was Bolian. One female was Klingon. The rest were human. All were scantily clad and wore leering expressions.

"Begin." The pirate officer commanded without a trace of inflection.

* * *

Daggit pointed at several key points of the data retrieved from the _Odyssey's_ log buoy, "As you can see by the data here, the vessels had modified their tractor beam assemblies. These modifications allowed the pirates to use their tractor beams as containment nets. It was not powerful enough to control a ship's movement, but contained enough power to alter the flight trajectory. Thus making the afflicted vessel vulnerable while they regained control of their ship."

Nerrit approached from the side and stood alongside Daggit, "What about tactics? Did the sensors record their movements?"

Daggit nodded, "They used a variant of the _Brekar_ Trap."

"The what?" Captain James Philips, captain of the _USS Victorious_, asked.

Nerrit took a deep breath and answered for Daggit, "It was a tactic invented by the Bajoran Resistance. The Maquis used it as well. Normally, the sizes of the vessels would be inverted. The small ships attacking the larger. Although it was adapted, it still contains several key similarities."

"I've noted the similarities and the changes in my report." Daggit offered.

"So they might be Maquis?" Philips asked with a tinge of hope.

"Maybe some of them." Daggit replied, "Not all of the surviving Maquis were recovered by Federation or Bajoran authorities. It makes sense that some of them would engage in piracy. That doesn't explain how they came in possession of two, possibly more, Starfleet vessels."

"No, it doesn't." Philips sighed, "Damn."

"How long until we reach _DS13_?" Daggit asked.

"Another two hours." Philips replied.

"Please inform Commander Petris to have us brought aboard as civilians, not Starfleet officers. For all we know, our cover is intact. That may prove useful in later efforts to gather intel on these scum."

"You want to try and gather intelligence?" Philips asked in surprise, "Lieutenant, your team has been cut in half and your ship destroyed. Your CO is in my Sickbay and we still don't have a prognosis on his condition. I'd think you'd want us to mount a pursuit rather than another investigation."

Daggit eyed him coldly, "We can only pursue them if we know where to find them. Right now, we don't know where they are. We don't know what other ships or surprises they can throw at us. Until we know that, I don't think pursuit is our best option, do you?"

Philips glared indignantly for several seconds before his gaze softened, "No, I suppose I don't. I'm sorry. This has to be harder on you and your team than anyone else. If you're advising caution, I guess we should listen."

"Once we know about them and know their vulnerabilities, I promise you, we'll go after them with everything we can spare." Daggit assured him.

Her comm badge chirped. He swatted it, "Daggit here."

"You wanted to know when the Captain was awake." Kort's weary voice rang out.

"Thanks Doctor." He glanced across the other taut worried faces, "Anyone want to go to Sickbay?"

Nerrit nearly ran through the door to get out. Philips smiled, "I think I'd like to tag along if you don't mind?"

He gave him a thankful smile, "Who'm I to tell you where you can go on your own ship?"

* * *

Kort waited for them outside of Sickbay. T'Kir and Grace were already there. T'Kir had refused to leave the vicinity until she had word on Macen. Grace had refused to leave T'Kir.

The _Intrepid_-class's Sickbay was far larger than anything the _Odyssey_ would have dreamed of boasting. Dr. Villar had been gracious enough to allow Kort to treat his own superior. The decision had been influenced by the fact Villar knew little about El-Aurian physiology.

Kort waited until everyone was assembled before delivering the news, "He's fine. There's no cellular damage due to the radiation. His El-Aurian biology and health treatments spared him degenerative effects."

"But?" T'Kir asked, hearing the catch in Kort's voice.

"But the radiation has neutralised the anti-ageing treatment he received several centuries ago." Kort said evenly, "He is now ageing at a normal rate again."

"That's still over three hundred years." Grace replied.

Kort nodded wearily, "The natural lifespan of an El-Aurian turns out to be slightly longer than an average Vulcan's. He can easily expect to reach an age of over three hundred and fifty standard years, and has the potential to live up to four hundred."

"I thought he was over four hundred years old." Grace blurted.

"His biological age is roughly thirty years." Kort clarified, "Captain Macen still has a long and full life ahead of him."

"Does he know?" Daggit asked.

Kort nodded, "Yes. He took it like a warrior. It did not seem to faze him. He took the news of the _Odyssey's _destruction much more personally."

"We've been through a lot in that ship." T'Kir murmured, "It meant a lot to him."

"Is he all right?" Daggit asked, "Can I speak with him?"

Kort smiled, "He's ready for duty. Dr. Villar is taking a few final readings. After that, he will be cleared for duty."

"In that case, will you both join me in the Officer's Briefing Room as soon as you're ready?" Philips asked.

* * *

Hilde Edgars watched as several of Spencer's men brought Dracas to the brig. Unlike Witt, they hadn't allowed him to dress. This time, the pirates did not wear smug expressions of satisfaction. They were angry.

Dracas appeared battered and weary. His eyes were complacent. She caught a glimpse of the steel in his eyes as he was shoved past her cell. That explained the anger the pirates displayed. They'd subjected Dracas to their worst and he remained unbroken. She knew the savagery would only intensify. She wished she could speak with him and enlist her in her goal of escaping.

Spencer had displayed the events of Dracas' "interrogation". The females had been as bad as the males, cheering them on and offering suggestions as to what to do next. They'd gratified themselves while the males expended their energies on Dracas. When it became apparent that Dracas would not be humiliated by their efforts, they'd resorted to torture. Those efforts had apparently failed as well.

* * *

Macen stepped out of Sickbay to discover a small crowd waiting for him. Embarrassment permeated his expression. Every wish or encouragement only intensified the feeling. He finally changed the topic by asking where Captain Philips had gone.

"He's in his Officer's Briefing Room." Daggit answered, "He wants to see us two ASAP."

Macen's expression was one of resignation, "Right. I guess I'll catch up with the rest of you later."

They gave a murmur of approval and began to disband. T'Kir gave him smirk as she stayed. Kort had told him of her carrying him to the pod. He had a feeling he'd never hear the end of that.

He glanced back at T'Kir, "I guess I have you to thank for getting me out of there."

"Brin, you almost died." She replied accusingly, "How can you just stand there like nothings happened?"

"I'm still alive." His reply held amusement.

Her eyes froze into an angry glare, "That isn't funny. You scared me half to death. We lost the _Odyssey_."

She regretted her last words as she saw the stinging effect they had upon him. That ship was one of the last tangible pieces they'd had to many of their lost comrades. It had been more of a home to them then virtually any world over most of the last six years. Its loss was as personal as that of any living being.

"We'll survive." He said firmly, "We'll survive and get the bastards that blew her up."

She watched him go with mute fascination as he and Daggit left to meet Philips. Once again, the universe had drop kicked Macen and he refused to surrender. He was already looking for a way to return the favour and restore things to the way they _ought _to be rather than the way they _were_. She wondered which of them was crazier, and knew the answer really didn't matter. She'd follow his lead into the gates of hell itself if he ordered it.

* * *

Macen and Daggit entered the Briefing Room. Philips was already seated comfortably. Philips thrust out a hand in Macen's direction. Macen accepted it and shook it firmly.

"A pleasure to meet you, Captain." Philips said with a toothy smile.

"Most people don't find it one." Macen shrugged as he released Philip's hand.

Philips guffawed. The Captain motioned for everyone to take a seat. Macen listened as they updated him as to what had occurred while he was unconscious. He silently noted Daggit's ease with Philips. That spoke highly of the man.

Macen shrugged sadly, "At least you've arranged to have us inducted to _DS13_ as civilians. Maintaining our cover may be more important now then ever."

"I don't follow." Philips admitted.

Macen grinned, "We need to infiltrate these pirates. If my team were revealed as Starfleet agents and their identities got out, that could prove disastrous to any effort to accomplish that."

"I take it you have candidates in mind?" Daggit asked with a sardonic smile.

"Yup." Macen affirmed, "Kort and T'Kir are perfect."

"Why not Nerrit?" Daggit asked, surprised by his nominees, "Why not me?"

Macen shook his head, "Wouldn't work. These guys have Starfleet connections. We have to assume they can penetrate any cover identity that Intelligence can produce."

"That doesn't explain how Kort and T'Kir could succeed under those same conditions." Daggit countered.

"Kort is still listed as being in exile by Imperial records." Macen explained, "T'Kir is still listed as being an escaped mental patient. She is wanted in order to finish her treatment in lieu of a penal sentence."

Daggit and Philips both wore shocked expressions. Daggit spoke first, "How is she in Starfleet?"

"Her records are sealed at the highest levels. Only the President, the C-in-C, The Director of Starfleet Intelligence, the Director of Special Investigations, and myself."

"Of course, T'Kir has probably already accessed them herself. She's funny that way." Macen added with a smirk.

"She can break Omega Level encryption?" Philips sputtered.

Macen's facial expression conveyed the answer.

Philips shook his head ruefully, "You sure you want to let her loose? She sounds too dangerous, and too valuable to let go off."

"Who said anything about letting go?" Macen replied, "This is an undercover op. It's not like she won't be coming back."

"As far as yourself.," Macen looked directly at Daggit, "I have another mission for you."

He turned to Philips, "If you could book passage for T'Kir and Kort to _DS9_, it would be invaluable. Have them contact Quark."

"Are you sure?" Philips asked dubiously, knowing the Ferengi's reputation.

Macen nodded, "He owes me. He'll provide T'Kir anything she needs."

"Okay." Philips sighed.

Macen smiled enigmatically. He alone knew why Quark would co-operate and it wasn't a pleasant memory.

"Next, get the rest of us passage to Starbase 412." Macen ordered, "I want Grace to review the records of any and all starships that are listed as missing from the assault on Betazed. Compile a list of suspects."

"What about me?"

"You will track down leads concerning possible Orion connections with the Andergani" He told him.

"You want to split up the team?" He asked.

"It seems to the best way to obtain the information we need." Macen's tone reflected his determination.

Daggit shrugged in resignation. There was no point in continuing to protest. He grimaced mentally as he realised that resistance was futile. He and the other Angosian Starfleet commandos had learned there weren't many forces in this galaxy that could challenge Macen's resolve. T'Kir seemed the closest to having the ability and even she had a bugger of a time getting through.

* * *

Macen made his way to his guest quarters. He knew they were fortunate to have cabins for everyone. The rest of the team had to sleep barrack's style. Daggit and Kort would undoubtedly enjoy it, as much as T'Kir and Grace would hate it. Macen wondered how Nerrit would get along with three other juinors.

He sighed as he sank down onto the bed. His head swam with the events of the last day. He'd awoken to discover he'd been unconscious for almost fourteen hours. Philips and the other starship commanders had used this time to investigate the wreckage and recover the _Odyssey's_ log buoy.

Thinking about the buoy forced Macen to confront his sense of loss regarding the ship's destruction. It was a final severance with his adopted family within the Maquis. The ship had lived a charmed life while he, Danan, and T'Kir had fought the Cardassians. Now the ship was destroyed.

Having lost his homeworld almost a century ago, Macen was no stranger to sorrow. He knew he'd survive this, just as he had before time and time again as he'd seen beloved comrades whither and die while he'd remained virtually immortal in comparison. He knew his ambivalent reaction to learning of his increased ageing process worried the medical staff aboard.

They didn't know him. If they had, they would have realised that Macen had accepted his own mortality years ago. He saw every day as a gift. Even facing a diminished life span was a gift. He no longer had to keep as many walls up, afraid to watch another dear friend die while he stood by and reminded them of youth long gone.

El-Aurians embraced old age. It was a time when centuries of experience could be taught and shared to eager younger minds. It was a time of leadership, when passions had been tempered and skills had been honed and tested countless times. He'd never understood the fear Terrans displayed when confronted with the topic.

He knew it was a cultural nuance he'd learned to appreciate mentally, but would never comprehend in his heart. He knew this topic amused Bajorans and confused Vulcans. Both were made of sturdier stuff than humans and shook their heads at the shorter-lived whirlwinds that heralded from Sol III.

Humanity had a passion for life and a lust for action that, while not unique, was nearly unrivalled. Longer-lived species tended towards more contemplative, introspective existences. The relatively short-lived humans wanted to get things done quickly. Their ambition limited only by time's eternal stopwatch counting down their remaining days and their own willingness to pursue their dreams.

Macen welcomed the shortening of his days. It would allow him to experience the universe in a way that he'd thought lost to him. El-Aurian philosophy taught that time was the fire in which all life burned. Some life burned hotter and faster, some cooler and steadier. His fire had heated up quite a bit; maybe it would give him the energy to accomplish what needed to be done.

T'Kir plunked down onto the bed behind him, "What're you thinking about?"

"Life's little ironies." He chuckled, "We brought that ship through worse odds than that a dozen times over, and this time we can't save her."

He shrugged, "That, and the first time I have a chance to find out what you thought of the Academy, it's because we no longer have a ship."

She smirked, "How about the irony that the first time I get you alone in a bedroom, its right after you've almost died."

He gave her a wry expression, "I didn't die."

"You _almost _died." She asserted fiercely, "Right in front of me. You're the only family I have left, Brin Macen. I don't want to watch you die if it means I have to live with that memory."

Her sudden admission caught him by surprise, "I never realised that."

"I never wanted you to feel sorry for me." T'Kir growled, "I don't want you to want me around because you pity me."

Macen laughed, "That'll never happen. I've never felt sorry for you, T'Kir. I've been angry, frustrated, confused and irritated, but never sorry."

"Hey!" she protested.

His eyes filled with warmth, "I've also been proud of you, impressed by your ability, grateful for your friendship, and pleased you've stuck around."

She was momentarily speechless, then stammered, "You never said anything before."

He shrugged, "I didn't want your head to get any bigger than it already is."

She gave him a wintry glance in response to his teasing, "So what happens now?"

"Well, when we get to _DS13_, you and Kort will be going off to _DS9_. From there you'll be heading into the Andergani Oligarchy to try and infiltrate those pirates." He replied quickly.

An incensed light began to burn in her eyes, "And the rest of you will be...?"

"Daggit will be going undercover trying to figure out of the Orion Syndicate is involved somehow. Grace will be perusing personnel and ship's records to see if she can get a bead on our attackers' identities."

"What about you?" she asked irritably, instinctively knowing she wouldn't like the answer.

"I'll be returning to the Maquis worlds and trying to track down any possible connection between the pirates and former comrades."

"Will you be going alone?"

He hesitated, knowing the emotional firestorm the answer was going to produce, "Nerrit will be coming with me."

Macen sighed as she rolled her eyes in disgust. She then proceeded to lambaste him with questions regarding the wisdom of the decision. Her arguments were well crafted and tested every potential flaw in the plans made thus far. He wondered of she'd ever realise that she was the most Vulcan when she was really angry.


	8. Chapter 8

105

Uprising

The door chimed. A few seconds later, it chimed again. A third attempt was followed by a fourth. The door finally opened with the distinctive "whoosh" that marked Federation doors.

"Captain?" Nerrit asked softly as she waited in the doorway.

She waited for a reply. Her heartbeat had time to accelerate before she decided she wasn't going to receive one. She stepped into the room and cleared the shelving unit that had obscured her view of the bed.

Macen lay still across it. For a moment, she thought he was dead. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room, she could see the rhythm of his breathing. She asked the computer to raise the illumination. She'd awoken almost two hours ago and been briefed regarding her upcoming mission by Daggit.

He still didn't respond. She crept closer to the bed. She knew he should be tired after the ordeal he'd been through. She also knew that his reflexes should be much sharper than this after years spent in combat.

She leaned forward and gently nudged his shoulder. He came awake in an instant. Awake, but not yet aware. He took her arm, spun her and placed her in a restraint that would allow him to easily snap her neck if he chose.

He blinked the last vestiges of sleep away and realised who he had a hold of. He released her immediately. He apologised profusely as she twisted and turned her head, testing the abused muscles of her neck. She laughed softly, alleviating his concern.

"It's alright." She assured him with a smile, "I'd have been more concerned if you hadn't responded."

"Yeah, me too."

She gave him an exasperated look, "How would you be concerned if you were already dead?"

"It's an El-Aurian thing." He replied with a shrug.

She shook her head, "I'm not going to pretend I understand. All I know is that Lt. Daggit asked me to inform that we've arrived."

* * *

Dracas studied the cell's interior. He'd installed and maintained brig systems, but he'd never designed one. As long as the cell was properly maintained, he had no chance of escape without any tools or instruments. Although the pirates had returned his clothes, he had no tools secreted in them.

As he'd lain on the cot, he thought he noticed a minuscule gap between the comm viewer and the surrounding wall it was recessed in. He wondered whether or not he could manage to widen the gap. If he could get to the isolinear systems, he might be able to override the surrounding systems and deactivate the forcefields holding him in the cell. If he accomplished this, then he could show the pirate the mistake they'd made by capturing him.

He scoffed at their earlier attempts to humiliate him. They'd obviously never dealt with a Troglyte before. His people had been slave labourors for centuries before being freed. They'd lived in small, cramped hovels that prevented privacy. Stratosians seeking diversion had also used them as entertainment.

Although such practices had ended over a century ago as a result of James T. Kirk's historic visit. He had heralded social changes that had changed every level of the planet. Those changes brought their planet into the Federation. It had also opened new opportunities for his people.

The pirates were inflicting pains that were cultural memories. They held no stigma for him, only a deep abiding determination to end the pirate's power to inflict pain upon others. Each violent act or sexual assault hardened his resolve. He knew that human cultural mores would be far more vulnerable to such attacks and he wanted to liberate the other prisoners he'd seen as he'd been led to this cell.

The pirates were so confident of their prisoner's helplessness, they didn't even have a standing guard in the brig. Food was delivered via a slaved replicator. It only delivered rations at designated times. If he could access the replicator's master computer through the comm system, he'd be able to request weapons as well as arrange an escape.

This would be slow going, if it were even possible. It didn't matter to Dracas how long it took, as long as he could _try_.

* * *

The cylindrical airlock doors hissed as they opened. Passengers immediately began disembarking from the transport liner _Fractious_. Two Bajoran Militia officers stood silently nearby, waiting for the station's sensors to alert them to any "discrepancies" carried by the passengers. Their impassive eyes barely flickered as T'Kir and Kort passed by them.

The station still headquartered the Federation's 9th Fleet, but the administration was now almost entirely in Bajoran hands. Colonel Kira Nerys was now the station CO, and she ran a tight command. With the exceptions of Dr. Julian Bashir and Lt. Ezri Dax, none of the original Starfleet command staff had remained after the close of the Dominion War. Even Dax wasn't truly an original member, but the current host of the Trill symbiot that had been housed in an original mission member. That host, Jazdia, had discovered the wormhole that made this sector invaluable.

Their ace in the hole could be found in the form of Ro Laren, the station's new Security Chief. Macen and T'Kir had served alongside Ro during their stint with the Maquis. After the Dominion's extermination campaign against the Maquis, Ro has assembled a ragged band of fighters and continued a guerrilla war against the Cardassians, Jem'Hadar, and Breen forces. This campaign has been covertly supported by Bajor and granted Ro amnesty from Starfleet's standing arrest warrant for her as long as she remained in Bajoran service or on Bajor.

As a hub of interquadrant commerce, the station received dozens of new visitors on an hourly basis. Two civilians, a Vulcan and Klingon, could easily blend into the myriad forms of humanity loitering about. Kort had been loath to relinquish his personal energy weapons, but had contented himself with the fact that he'd been allowed to retain his edged weapons. T'Kir had constructed a projectile weapon from composites that sensors didn't seem to detect.

Kort wore his usual gruff demeanour like a shield. Although he was an intimidating presence, T'Kir was the one strangers shrank back from. It wasn't just the fact that she readily displayed emotions, that was disconcerting enough from a Vulcan, it was the emotion she'd chosen to display during their two day voyage here from _DS13_. She calmly met anyone's eyes that dared peer into hers with an unbridled, murderous rage.

She'd been infuriated since the moment she'd discovered her assignment. That anger had increased geometrically when she discovered what role Macen had chosen for himself. The thought of Macen and Nerrit alone together over the next week or two was enough to make T'Kir's teeth grind. The fact that Macen had obviously recognised the source of her rage did nothing to alleviate her feelings.

The loss of the _Odyssey_ had been a blow to her as well. Her only ambition in life was to stay by Macen's side, in whatever capacity that entailed. She'd admitted to him that she considered him family, but didn't think he realised how protective she felt towards him. Macen had lost his ship, and several centuries off his life in the course the last few days, she didn't want him to lose anything else due to their newest teammate.

T'Kir tried to shrug her doubts and anger aside as she guided Kort through the labyrinthine corridors of _DS9_. She'd been here on two previous occasions, both were missions for the Maquis. Macen and Danan had been with her then. It was strange to cross the Promenade without them at her side.

Macen had devised this plan as well. It was because of him that they were about to accomplish what they were. She felt a sudden pang when she considered his absence. They'd separated two days ago when he and the others went on to Starbase 412 while she and Kort headed for _DS9_.

She stopped a few metres in front of Quark's Bar and turned to face Kort, "Okay, this is it. It'll help if you wore a really grim, bloodthirsty expression."

Kort glared at her, as she shook her head, "No That's not good enough. I'm not talking about your 'Doctor' face, we need a warrior face."

The resulting glare was perfect, "Great! Just hold that expression and let me do the talking." His expression darkened even further.

She strode into Quark's with a satisfied smirk. She took a second to glance about. Things were pretty much the same as she'd last seen them four years ago. She saw that the being known as Morn still sat at his customary stool. Scantily clad Dabo girls still ran the games as Ferengi waiters trolled the tables, encouraging customers to liberate more money from their purses.

Quark stood behind the hub of most of the activity. The Ferengi wore a suit of interwoven gleaming threads. It made him look as though he'd donned a rainbow. T'Kir had thought the outfit he'd worn on her last visit had been outlandish but it had paled in comparison.

She knew she looked outlandish herself if anyone were to apply Vulcan standards to her garb. Rather than don the loose robes or pants and tunic common to her people, she opted to wear leather pants and vest with a silk blouse and a woollen jacket. The typical Vulcan's apprehension towards the taking of a life prevented them from comfortably wearing hides. She'd never felt bound by that restriction and saw no need to adopt it now.

Both the jacket and the pants were designed to prevent her from chilling. Like most Vulcanoids, she found the standard temperatures maintained on Federation ships and station too cool for her liking. She knew that other races also disliked the Earth based standard, but very different reasons. Trills, Andorians, and Telarites all found the temperatures slightly warm whereas the Klingons and Bolians also found shipboard duty slightly chilly.

Kort wore his armour, but bereft of any house sigils or military insignia. He appeared to be a common ruffian seeking employment. Dishonoured or dismoded Klingons often hired themselves out as mercenaries or bodyguards. This was the impression they were trying to broadcast.

T'Kir saddled up to the bar and dropped the heavy shoulder bag she'd been lugging from transport to transport. The noise caught the attention of Quark's highly sensitive ears and made his head snap around. His mouth curved upward in his characteristic smile. His facial expression froze as he recognised who was standing before him.

"Hello, Quark." T'Kir said with a malicious grin as she sat down on a stool.

"H...h...hello, T'Kir." Quark replied nervously, "I thought you were dead." He shook his head, "That's not what I meant to say. I meant to say..."

"You meant to say you'd hoped I was dead." T'Kir amended for him.

Quark brushed the comment away with a wave of his hand, "Of course I wouldn't! I could never want someone as beautiful as you dead."

She gave him a wry look, "I'm a telepath, remember? Don't bother lying to me."

Quark assumed a look of contrite shock, "You misjudge me, my dear. I have never wanted any harm to befall you or your esteemed captain." His eyes narrowed, "Speaking of whom, where...ah...where is he now?"

"That's none of your concern." T'Kir replied, "Suffice it to say, he's not here..._yet_. He won't be coming unless our negotiations go badly."

"Good, good." Quark's body went rigid as her words sank in, "What negotiations?"

"The ones we're about to have regarding a small, armed courier ship." T'Kir explained.

"Courier?" Quark repeated, "Like the type the Maquis used? I thought you two were done with that nonsense. I'd even heard rumours that Macen was the one that broke the Gulag conspiracy."

T'Kir's eyes flashed dangerously and menace laced her voice as she replied huskily, "Don't ever refer to the Maquis as 'foolish'! We fought for our homes and our worlds _without_ any help. Anyone would have done the same, except possibly the Ferengi."

"Fortunately, no one's ever wanted it." Quark replied happily.

"Little wonder." Kort growled.

"Excuse me," Quark said, turning to face him, "I don't believe we've been introduced."

"You won't be," T'Kir informed him sharply, "That way you can deny everything if questioned by the Imperial bounty hunters."

"I see your point." Quark conceded with upraised brows.

He clapped his hands together, "Now, let's negotiate."

"The terms are simple." T'Kir said coolly, "You will deliver the type of vessel we've asked for. It must meet our specifications and inspection. You will receive five strips of latinum for brokering the deal."

"Five!" Quark sputtered, "That doesn't even make it worth my time!"

T'Kir arched an eyebrow at him, "Very well, it's now three strips."

"What?" Quark shrieked.

"What about the ship?" T'Kir asked stonily, "When can you deliver?"

"Why should I?" Quark demanded.

T'Kir pulled him forward by his lapel, "Don't forget what you owe us. You can still make two strips, if you agree to act now."

"Okay!" Quark wailed, "I'll do it!"

She let go and he massaged his neck, "You didn't have to get so physical. I'll be more than happy to find you a ship."

"That fits our requirements." T'Kir stressed again.

"Of course." Quark assured her, "What else would you expect from me?"

"I expect you to do something stupid." T'Kir replied honestly, "I also expect you to forfeit your commission in the process."

"I assure you, that won't happen." Quark tried placating her, "When will you be needing this vessel?"

"Within the next three days." T'Kir informed him.

Quark sputtered. T'Kir gave him a victorious grin, "I don't think I need to inform you of the potential consequences of failing to deliver."

Quark sighed, "I know. I suppose you'll be on the station?"

Her smile was indulgent, "Of course. Where else would I be?"

"I don't know." Quark muttered, "A mental institution?"

"I've been there." T'Kir said as she rose, "Couldn't stand the food and decided to leave."

She left with Kort at her heels. Quark shook his head. He was trapped and he knew it. He'd learned the hard way about T'Kir's expertise with cybernetic systems. He doubted even his new encryption protocols purchased from the Binars.

It was a challenge he didn't want to issue. If she began rifling through his secure records, she'd find enough damning information about him to have him executed in over two dozen star systems. If that didn't occur, then Macen would return to find him. That was a worse fate and one he wouldn't dare risk.

* * *

Macen and Nerrit walked towards runabout pad 8, closely followed by Daggit. Macen and Nerrit both wore civilian garb of Bajoran origin. Daggit wore nondescript coveralls. He was leaving minutes after them and had already dressed for his part.

Macen and Nerrit had been assigned an older runabout of civilian origin. The _Danube_-class' modular design was so versatile that it had proven a hit across the Federation and beyond. The Maquis had wanted them more than the scoutships they'd depended upon. The major advantage to the scouts was their size. The runabouts only possessed two cots. The scouts at least provided barracks style quarters,

"You don't need to do this, sir." Daggit protested, not for the first time.

Macen stopped and sighed, not for the first time, "Yes, I do Rab. We need to determine how wide this net is spread. We've seen evidence that former members of the Bajoran Resistance and the Maquis may be participating with Spencer."

"We can make that determination _after_ we capture him." Daggit protested.

"We have no guarantees that T'Kir and Kort will be able to infiltrate the pirates." Macen replied wearily, "By trying to make contact with former members of both suspect groups, we may be able to establish a link that will produce hard evidence and information regarding our suspects."

"You're the team leader. You're place is here, co-ordinating the team's efforts." Daggit snorted.

"The team's all incognito." He reminded him coldly, "I can be the most useful by pursuing leads no one else is assigned to follow up and try to help put the pieces together."

His eyes narrowed as they bored into Daggit's, "If you have a problem with that, Lieutenant, I suggest you put in for another transfer."

With that said, he turned on his heel and strode down the corridor towards the runabout. Daggit stood there silently, digesting what he'd just been told. He glanced over towards Nerrit. Nerrit gave him a wan smile and shrugged.

"He has a point, but then again, so do you." She said and then followed in Macen's wake.


	9. Chapter 9

115

Uprising

Daggit fumed as he left the runabout pad access corridor. Macen was the team leader and was still recovering from extensive injuries. He was not _supposed_ to be going off on some damned field mission leaving him behind to pursue another investigation. He was the team's Chief Tactical Officer as well as team XO, he was supposed to handle the fieldwork in order to free Macen up for research, strategy, and analysis. _Dammit!_ he thought bitterly, _I'm the one who's supposed to be out there taking the risks. I didn't join up this time to let my CO get himself killed.._

He went to the small archive room that had been allocated for the team's use. He came in as though he was charging a squad of Jem'Hadar. He came to a stop as he realised that something was missing. He turned to Grace, who was sitting at a data terminal reviewing records surrounding starships that had gone missing during the battle for Betazed.

"Where's Simms?" Daggit asked sharply.

Grace's expression expressed her reticence to answer, "She's been called away."

"By whom?" Daggit asked testily, "For what?"

"Apparently Admiral Drake has already reassigned the junior team members." Grace answered slowly, "The Admiral already cut everyone's orders."

"Bloody hell!" Daggit exploded through clenched teeth, "How am I supposed to manage the safety of this team if I don't have a clue as to their whereabouts?"

"You'd have to ask the Admiral that." Grace replied reluctantly.

"Oh, I plan to Ensign." Daggit growled, sorry to place Grace in the middle of this, "Trust me, I will as soon as I get back from kicking Orion ass!"

Daggit left Starbase 412 shortly after Macen and Danan's departure. He'd booked passage on a freighter going to the Orion Confederacy. Rumour had it that Angosian commandos had been hiring on with the Orions as mercenaries. The Orions then provided "specialists" for the Andergani and other non-aligned powers. Daggit's mission was to seek an assignment within the Oligarchy.

As much as Daggit loathed violence, he also knew that combat was one of the few outlets for the heightened adrenal levels his body maintained. His body was essentially a reactor constantly running "hot". During the Dominion War, he'd discovered that the stresses of infiltration and undercover work served as outlets as effectively as combat. He was glad of this assignment since it spared him the nerve-wracking tedium of the records search that Grace were now conducting as well as burning off some of the anger he felt at Starfleet's bureaucratic interference in their investigation.

* * *

The runabout, christened _Javelin_, was underway into the heart of what was once the Cardassian/Federation DMZ. Nerrit had never seen it before. Macen had spent years out here, first serving Starfleet during the undeclared border war with Cardassia then with the Maquis after the Federation had abandoned her colonies here. Most of the original colonists had died when the Dominion swept through here, but those that had escaped were returning.

"It seems rather peaceful now." Nerrit observed from the co-pilot station, where she was running scans of the systems they passed.

"It's a pleasant change." Macen admitted, "This areas seen too much death."

"That does seem to be a reoccurring problem for these systems." Nerrit agreed dryly.

He grinned at her irreverent humour. Most Federation and Bajoran citizens would balk at the apparent belittling of the tragedies that had occurred across this region of space for almost seventy years. Macen saw it has a coping mechanism. Rather than drown in sorrow over events that were immutably in the past, it allowed one to keep the events in one's mind without succumbing to sorrow.

The senseless violence that had plagued this corner of the Alpha Quadrant shouldn't be forgotten or ignored, but it also shouldn't be an oppressive cloud stifling new life and hope. Macen saw the Federation's attempts to portray all the events through a grim lens as demeaning as wilful denial of the abuse and warfare that had occurred.

"Y'know, it's always seemed a paradox that most of these worlds were established as agricultural colonies." Macen mused aloud.

"Why?" Nerrit asked.

"They seemed to reap nothing but unwanted crops." Macen observed, "These planets had no obvious strategic value. Most of the minerals and raw resources were widely available in greater abundance elsewhere. The majority weren't even all that temperate, which is the ideal for an agro planet."

"So you're saying the fighting was a waste?" Nerrit asked, "Sorry, but I think a lot of people reached that decision a long time ago without your insight to guide them."

His lips twisted up in a wry expression, "What I'm saying is that the true war was over people's right to exist. Everything else was window dressing."

"Isn't that the essence of war?" Nerrit asked, joining in the philosophical air of the moment, "Isn't it a struggle for supremacy and survival? Whether it's the survival of a race, government, ideal, or religion it seems that all wars come down to the right of existence. I guess the question becomes, does everything have a right to exist?"

Macen gave her a rueful smile, "I don't think I'm qualified to answer that question."

"Why not?" she retorted, "You've been alive for almost five hundred years, surely you have some insight?"

"My insight is that I have a lot to learn before I'm qualified to answer that question."

"Quitter."

His eyebrow rose, "Can you answer it?"

"No, but I asked the question." She replied with a twinkle in her eye, "You're supposed to answer it. I'm just supposed to come up with another question after you answer it."

"I see. I'll guess we'll have to work on that."

"I guess we shall."

* * *

Dracas had managed to pry the comm panel loose from the wall. By changing the alignment of the isolinear rods controlling the system, he'd gained limited access tot he pirate's systems. He still couldn't access the security or replicator controls, but he was now able to eavesdrop on internal and external communications. If he had any tools, he could pry more out of the systems.

The pirates were pretty lax about security, but they watched the silverware issued with meals fairly closely. A guard would come during meals and observe their eating. The guard would then inspect the replicator logs from the guard post and verify that the silverware and dishes were recycled back into the replicator stores.

Dracas had spent a better part of the night perfecting his skills at tapping into their network. He'd been relieved to discover that the original Starfleet mainframe remained intact. It was easy to insert viral codes to obscure his access. He couldn't manipulate primary systems yet, but he was working on it.

His first concern now was contacting the other prisoners he'd seen. If he could gather support, his odds of successfully escaping would increase. He was starting to get a feel for the pirates' operating procedures and knew his chronometer was running out. His best estimate was that he had no more than forty-eight hours to make his move before Spencer ordered his death.

* * *

T'Kir strolled nonchalantly into Quark's. The barkeep had sent word for her to meet him in his office upstairs. She'd delivered her request for ship yesterday. She knew Quark was crafty, but if he'd found a suitable vessel in this short of time then he might also be qualified as a miracle worker.

One of Quark's waiters met her downstairs and led her towards Quark's private office. It was strange to be here without seeing his brother Rom bustling about. She'd learned that Rom had proven to be an engineering savant, and then something of a cultural reformer by taking a Bajoran as a wife. Knowing that Rom was now Grand Nagus of the Ferengi Consortium had to be driving Quark absolutely insane.

That thought brought a satisfied smirk to T'Kir's face. If anyone deserved a little insanity, it was definitely Quark. The Maquis had employed him as an information and procurement resource from time to time. Quark had tried to raise his profit margin by playing the Maquis against the Cardassians on more than one occasion. The last time he'd tried it, Macen had insured that Quark was caught squarely in the targeting sensors of both sides.

Quark escaped certain death, but only due to Macen's intervention. That left the Ferengi indebted to Macen. It was a debt he had little desire to carry and would be more than happy to discharge. Macen had discovered the one thing Quark did not want broadcast across the galaxy: the Ferengi actually had a conscience.

Quark displayed more than the typical Ferengi habit of insuring that contracts were followed to the letter, if not the spirit, in which they were written. Quark had an amazing tendency to display altruistic behaviour. He, of course, denied any such impulses. That had ended when Macen had presented him with documentation of his various charitable acts.

Macen and T'Kir had painfully spent weeks compiling the evidence. Much of it was gleaned from Quark's own records. He'd spent frenzied weeks after the confrontation trying to determine how T'Kir had accessed his records. The truly baffling part was that she'd done it while not even being aboard the station.

The door opened, revealing Quark sitting behind a desk with his feet propped up on it. He wore a satisfied grin. T'Kir was curious as to why he felt so flush with victory. She also knew better than to ask, he'd tell her soon enough.

After waiting several minutes, Quark finally grew impatient, "Well? Aren't you going to ask?"

"Ask what?" she asked as she folded her arms across her chest.

"Why I asked you here." He answered with growing agitation.

She shrugged, "I assumed you wanted to talk to me."

"Of course I wanted to talk you." He admitted with greater urgency, "Don't you want to know what about?"

"You'll tell me eventually." She replied nonchalantly.

Quark became increasingly fidgety as he waited for her to inquire as to his reasons. Finally, his impatience won out over his desire to gloat. He came out of his chair with an indignant cry. His arms flailed as he began to pace about and irately announced his motivation for summoning her.

"I find you a ship and you don't even ask how the search is going!" his tone was bitter, "I even track down leads regarding Maquis that haven't been incarcerated. I thought you might want to try and rejoin some of them."

He stopped pacing inches from her, yelling all the way, "I've done all of this for you, and you haven't even asked me how I'm doing?"

Her hands flashed out faster than his eyes could follow and took hold of his ears. She pulled outward, as though trying to pull his ears form his bulbous head. He shrieked as his knees buckled. Exerting upward pressure, she kept him in a kneeling position rather than letting him sink to the floor.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" she chided, "This could have been very easy, but _noooo_, you wanted to gloat. If you hadn't wanted to lord it over me, this wouldn't have turned painful."

"I'm sorry." Quark whimpered, tears filling his eyes as she exerted more pressure on his ultra sensitive lobes, "I'm so sorry."

The sobbing was pathetic, so she released his ears. He stayed where he'd landed. After waiting a moment, she stepped back and gave him a curious look. He appeared disappointed by her withdrawal.

"What's wrong with you, besides the obvious?"

"I was just taking a moment to enjoy the view." He answered with a lascivious grin.

"Get up." She sighed in resignation.

"Are you going to kill me?" he wheedled as he stood, "I've provided what you asked for, and more besides!"

"Shut up!" T'Kir snapped, "I'll only kill you if you don't stop annoying me. When will the ship be ready for inspection?"

"Tomorrow." He answered quickly.

"Where is it?"

"Does it matter?" he asked apprehensively.

"Where is it from Quark?" she asked again, her voice carried a dangerous edge.

"Well, I really don't..._urk_."

T'Kir lifted him several inches off the ground with her right hand, which was wrapped around his throat, "Don't make me show you exactly how strong a Vulcan is."

The way she'd hissed it caught his attention. "It was captured by the Cardassians." he managed to utter.

She released her hold on his throat. Quark crumpled on the floor with a gasping squeak. T'Kir moved away and went to his desk. She picked up his personal data terminal and hurled it against the wall.

"When were you going to tell me?" she yelled, "Don't you think I'd figure it out when I went aboard?"

"Listen, I didn't..."

"Shut the hell up." She cut him off viciously, "The ship had better be here tomorrow. If it isn't, I'll kill you."

She left in angry silence. Quark sat on the floor rubbing his throat. Until he'd met T'Kir, he'd assumed every Vulcan was cold and efficiently boring. She'd blown that stereotype and he was suddenly glad that she was the only one that had defied it.

* * *

Nerrit watched Macen as he monitored the navigational sensors. He'd grown increasingly silent the longer they were together. She wondered why that was. As far as she could tell, things were going well enough.

She finally had to ask, "Is something wrong?"

He blinked in surprise, then broke into a sheepish grin, "Just thinking about how this is a lousy reason for a reunion."

Her wry expression conveyed her empathy regarding his feelings. Her family had only returned to Bajor after the Cardassian withdrawal. Macen's return to see his former Maquis rebuilding their colonies would undoubtedly be received as critically by some as her family's choice had been. It wasn't a stigma that was easy to live with. Then again, Macen didn't seem to place much stock in what others thought.

Grace sighed as she set the padd down on the desktop. She rubbed her eyes and then pinched the bridge of her nose. She wondered what her superiors in Section 31 would think of her throwing in with Macen the way she had. D'art hadn't been the only operative they'd infiltrated into Macen's last crew. She'd begun to wonder if Macen suspected her or if T'Kir had detected her loyalties the way she had with Julia.

She'd intentionally cultivated a friendship with the Vulcan in order to distract her from penetrating her cover. The results of that effort had been startling. Rather than moving into a position to influence one of Macen's closest friends, she found herself falling under Macen's sway through T'Kir. The El-Aurian made a frightening amount of sense.

She found herself questioning the nature of the organisation she was sworn to. She'd enlisted to protect the ideals of the Federation, not to deport its citizenry. Although she knew Section 31 had to take measures that others found contemptible, she had always comforted herself with the knowledge that they did so in order to protect those people's right to condemn them. The Gulag threw that belief into the gutter.

She hadn't reported to her superiors in months. She knew that Macen himself had walked a similar tightrope while infiltrating the Maquis, ostensibly serving Starfleet interests while forwarding the Maquis cause. She also knew that Section 31 held a tighter leash on its operatives and that its wrath was far beyond anything Starfleet Intelligence could dream off.


	10. Chapter 10

125

Uprising

Daggit stepped out of the gantry the commercial shuttle had linked to. He entered the shuttleport with every nerve in his body pulsing at an accelerated rate. His senses and reaction time were all far above humanoid norms. His stride bespoke brisk confidence.

Daggit had returned to his home environment: covert operations. He felt uncomfortable aboard starships and behind consoles. This is where he functioned best. He immediately recognised his contact when he saw her despite never having laid eyes on her before.

Radil Jenrya had been one of the handful of Bajoran Resistance fighters to be loaned out to mercenary forces in order to raise revenue for her cell. As with most of the exported terrorists, Radil had not accepted the Bajoran government's offer of amnesty in exchange for a return to the homeworld and forsaking their destructive crusade. She'd plied her trade across a dozen sectors and built a formidable reputation in doing so. The Syndicate recruiter that had steered him to this planet had shuddered in recollection of his last encounter with Radil.

His steely eyes sized her up even as he felt hers do the same. Radil matched his holo-image of her. She was small, lithe, and emanated quiet danger. Other than her demeanour, the only evidence of her past was the jagged scar that protruded from the corner of her left eye, rounding her cheekbone to end at the corner of her mouth.

The shadows in her large, brown eyes were familiar to him. They were the shadows of untold deaths. She wore her auburn hair and close cropped enough to give T'Kir competition in the spiky hair department. Her pale complexion and hostility reminded him of the female Angosian commandos that had been confined alongside their male counterparts.

That confinement, spent on Angosia's lifeless moon, had been especially hard in the half-dozen women who were incarcerated there. They had joined the military during their world's darkest hour, despite traditional reservations. Their reward for successfully completing their mission was to be locked away. Fending off the attentions of four dozen of their male counterparts became a daily routine.

Daggit could guess why she hadn't joined Bajoran Militia when given the opportunity. Many saw Bajor's treaty with Cardassia as a betrayal of the suffering generations of Bajorans had endured under the Occupation. A surprising number accepted the offer and retired to the countryside or a colony world. Others like Radil, unable to forget the bloodshed, refused and subsequently disappeared.

He'd been saddened, but not surprised to learn that many of the dissidents had enlisted as mercenaries with the Orion Syndicate. The Syndicate promised to pursue armament options that neither the Federation nor the Maquis would condone. He also knew that such promises were hollow. The mercenaries were far too effective and valuable in their "abandoned" mode and also readily expendable.

Daggit watched Radil's face closely. Her expression never changed as he approached. That was either good or bad. He supposed it was an improvement over open hatred.

"It's good to meet you." Daggit said pleasantly as he stood before her. Radil was purported to possess a keen intellect and multi-tasking abilities that a Vulcan would envy. She operated on several levels simultaneously, which made her an invaluable ally or the deadliest of foes.

"I heard a rumour that you made Lieutenant." Her voice was flat, conveying no hint as to her feelings on the matter. It didn't require heightened senses for Daggit fathom the danger he was presently in. One misspoken word or action and he was dead. Radil's head may not have reached Daggit's chin, but he knew she could easily kill him if she got the drop on him.

"Yes, I did." Daggit admitted.

"So why'd you leave Starfleet?" Radil inquired. This time her inflection betrayed her. Her distaste for Starfleet was too great to hide. Daggit took a breath and prepared to navigate the shallows of the cover story Admiral Drake and Macen had prepared for him.

"I resigned following a disagreement with my CO." he declared. It was close enough to the actual events to ring true.

She gave him a thin smile, "Picard must have been stymied to have a junior officer disregard orders in front of the crew."

Daggit tried not to react, but Radil laughed softly, "We have some highly placed sources."

_I bet._ He thought, _If I ever find them, they're dead._

"Why'd you come this way?"

_Now for part 2, _"I heard rumours of the Orions pursuing possible treatments for Angosians. I thought I'd check and see if they were true."

She nodded, "They're true. Care to find out more?"

He nodded and she gave him a warmer smile, "Then we'll meet someone further up the chain. All offers will be put on the table there."

Daggit followed as she led the way out of the shuttleport. He decided that he really didn't want to know what the offer would consist of. He had a sickening feeling he already knew. He wondered how far he was willing to go to complete the mission.

* * *

Dracas whispered an oath as the panel he'd been prying on snapped back towards the wall, pinching his fingers painfully. The doors to the brig opened. Dracas insured that the comm panel was properly placed and did not show evidence of his attempts to get it out of the wall. Spencer himself entered the brig and moved towards one of the other cells.

Spencer stopped when he reached Hilde Edgars' cell. The starship captain sat quietly on her bunk, watching Spencer impassively. He stared at her for several minutes before a smug grin spread slowly across his face. Stepped closer to the forcefield.

"I see you've lost some of your bravado, Captain." He sneered.

"Why give you more reasons to hurt Alicia?" Edgars asked, "How is she?"

"She's alive." Spencer answered, "How long she remains that way is entirely up to you."

"She's alive, but how _is_ she?" Edgars asked more insistently.

"She's been rather unresponsive since her last... interrogation." Spencer replied with a shrug, "That doesn't mean she still can't serve as entertainment for the crew. Some of my men prefer women that don't resist."

"Real holodeck enthusiasts, eh?" Edgars riposted smartly.

Spencer smiled appreciatively but waggled his finger, "Careful, Captain, resistance can prove unpleasant for your unfortunate friend."

Edgars sighed, "What is it you want?"

"Answers." He informed her simply.

"You haven't asked any question." Edgars replied vehemently, "All you've done is rape and beat me and my first officer."

"And I will continue to do so unless I feel that you will answer honestly when the time comes for me to ask a question." Spencer warned.

Edgars' jaw clenched, then slowly released, "I'll answer you to the best of my ability."

He mulled over her answer for a moment, then shook his head, "Sadly, I don't think so. I'm afraid I've scheduled several interrogators to come to your friend's cell in a few hours. Maybe you'll be more honest with me after that."

He turned and left without another word. Edgars' shouted her rage after him, "You soulless bastard! If your men touch her again, I'll kill them when I get out of here!"

Sitting in the cell next to hers, Dracas watched Spencer's retreating back. After the doors closed, he returned to work on the panel. He wasn't certain he could finish before the rape squad arrived, but he might be able to while they busied themselves with the woman. He regretted having to use her as a distraction but he had little choice in the matter.

* * *

The _Javelin _assumed orbit over Parra IV. It was located in the former DMZ. It was also a former Maquis world that was being resettled as Maquis refugees and prisoners were repatriated. Many of the colonists that had relocated upon the founding of the DMZ were returning. Their guilt at not staying and fighting as well motivated many of them and gave the new communities a frenetic energy.

Macen had visited this world often during his days with the Maquis. It was a sparkling purple gem in a system of lifeless brown worlds and two white balls of frozen gas. The slight grey tint to the skies served to evoke images of El-Auria in Macen's mind. He wished that T'Kir and the rest if his former crew could be here to see the Maquis return to the planet.

This world had been a source of comfort to them in the midst of anguish and peril. He was pleased to see inhabitants return here. The Maquis had shed too much blood to lose a world like this. Eager anticipation permeated the cabin of the runabout.

Macen took a final navigational reading and locked their descent course in. The runabout lowered itself into the atmosphere. Grey clouds parted, revealing the purple tree covered rolling hills and mountain ranges. Green lakes and seas permeated this world in place of oceans.

Nerrit's breath caught in her throat for a moment as the splendour of the terrain unveiled before them. The Bajoran had readily admitted to never having travelled in Maquis space although it had been a frequent topic of studies and reports before and after the war with the Dominion. She's also admitted a fascination with the Maquis, being the indirect heirs to the Bajoran Resistance. It was an attitude that had been frowned upon on Bajor, in light of their treaty negotiations with Cardassia and the alliance with the Federation.

Macen observed her wistful smile, "Thinking of home?"

She gave him a rueful look, "We're so close, and yet we're still hundreds of light years away."

"I tend to think of all of these worlds as home." Macen confided, "My homeworld is now a Borg enclave on the other side of the galaxy. These colonies are more of home to me than anywhere else in the Alpha Quadrant."

"But you serve in Starfleet." she asked, baffled, "Wouldn't you feel more at home on a Federation world?"

He grinned, "It takes refugee worlds to make a refugee truly feel at home."

* * *

Daggit and Radil travelled by groundcar across the continent he'd landed upon on Wykyr. Transporters were rarely used for public transit. They were reserved for cargo and shipping. Repulsor and impulse driven craft were employed instead.

The car was wedge-shaped with an enclosed cockpit in the front and an open passenger area in the rear. Mounting brackets on the sides and cockpit roof revealed that the car could carry weaponry. Daggit suspected that the bulge in the rear of the passenger/cargo area housed a shield generator. Having spent years in enclosed spacecraft, racing at nearly ninety kilometres an hour at only a few metres off the ground was exhilarating.

Radil caught Daggit's enthusiastic smile and returned it. Her hair was tousling in the wind. Her lean features were lined from years spent in combat or imprisonment. Her face brightened with the first signs of true happiness Daggit had observed from her since arriving.

He wondered if the car's driver was Angosian as well. If not, his or her reflexes were exceptional. The repulsor field was expertly manipulated to compensate for the varying topography. Although the "road" was nothing more than a jagged collection of stones strewn across the plains they were traversing, their ride was fairly smooth.

_Kind of like being on a boat in calm waters._ He thought to himself.

"D'you always use these things?" Daggit asked Radil. He raised his voice to be heard over the repulsor's hum and the wind noise.

She hesitated before answering, "They're the primary means of transportation 'round here."

"What about when you're on other worlds?" he pressed his inquiry.

She gave him a wry grin, "So many questions."

He scowled, but she laughed softly, "Let's just say that these cars are easy to transport and can be extremely useful in various environments."

He nodded in comprehension, then broke into an eager smirk, "Got anything bigger?"

* * *

T'Kir and Kort stepped into the cargo bay cautiously. Kort was irritable because he'd been gorging himself at the station's Klingon restaurant and had been dragged away from his eighth helping of _gackh_. T'Kir's dark mood stemmed from another source altogether. They were here to buy a craft that had once been operated by her comrades in arms. That did not settle well with her.

For all her apparent social impropriety, T'Kir had been deeply committed to the Maquis' dream. Aside from her mental instability derived from telepathic sensitivity, her attitude and demeanour were sculpted by a rejection of a planet and society that had condemned its colony in the DMZ in the name of logical pragmatism. That had ignited the deep wellspring of turbulent passions that Vulcans typically strove to suppress. T'Kir had embraced her passions and followed them through their dark eddies and currents.

Buying a ship captured by the Cardassians, at the probable cost of Maquis lives, was nearly unpalatable. She could feel her gorge rising as her ears detected the sounds of quiet words being exchanged at the other end of the bay behind a stack of containers. This was Quark's private bay. He'd wanted to conduct the transaction here.

"Quark!" she shouted, surprising Kort as much as she hoped it rattled the Ferengi and the Cardie, "Drag your pink, lobeless carcass into sight."

Quark moved out from behind the containers with his arms outstretched, "I knew you couldn't resist my charms. Can't you wait until we've concluded our business here before conducting any _private_ transactions?"

"Keep your mind on business." She snarled in warning.

"I am." He assured, "My only thoughts are upon closing the deal."

"And my only thoughts are of gutting you where you stand." Kort growled.

"Did you have to bring him along?" Quark huffed petulantly.

"Tell the Cardassian to step out into the open." T'Kir said in a low voice.

"Certainly." He turned, "Eklam, would you join us?"

The Cardassian stepped out of the shadows. He wasn't very tall. He was rather thick and squat even by Cardassian standards. He moved uneasily, with furtive gestures. His eyes flicked back and forth between Quark and his prospective buyers.

"Say 'hello', Eklam." Quark urged.

"Hello." Eklam almost whispered.

T'Kir snorted in derision. This man was certainly no soldier. He was a bottom feeder. A scavenger that peddled in spoils stolen from the dead and the wealthy. No wonder he and Quark collaborated.

"You brought the ship?" she demanded.

Eklam's head nodded in a convulsive manner, "Y-yes."

"Good." T'Kir thrust out a padd towards Quark, "This authorises the latinum transfer. Thumbprint it and we'll be on our way."

Quark perused it quickly. Nodding in satisfaction, he handed it to Eklam. Eklam pressed his thumb onto the appropriate scanner without hesitation. T'Kir found the hate eking from her.

_He's too pathetic to hate_, she thought wearily, _it's like spacing a vole._

Quark retrieved the padd from Eklam and handed it back to T'Kir, "Now as for our other business?"

She gave him a look of pure loathing, "There is no other business."

"There could be." He said suggestively.

She rolled her eyes and strode away. Kort sniffed in disgust and followed her out. Eklam deflated, his nerve spent. Quark sighed.

_And it would've been such a sweet transaction. _He thought wistfully.


	11. Chapter 11

143

Uprising

The runabout settled gently onto the ground. The proximity sensors gauging the amount of thrust to apply in order to gently lower the craft rather than drop it abruptly. Macen knew pilots that preferred to land manually. He also knew he did not have the appropriate skills to land a craft this gracefully himself.

He placed the runabout's main drive on standby and locked the controls with a command code. He left the computer active and the transporters active. If their reception began to get too unpleasant, they could call the ship and be beamed back to the ship. He rose from his seat and joined Nerrit at the equipment locker.

Although the colonists were receiving Federation and Bajoran aid for their resettling effort, there was no hard data on the colonists beyond census information. Macen and Nerrit had no idea what kind of reception awaited them. The attitudes and possible resentments felt by the colonists were a mystery. Macen supposed they couldn't be too hard-nosed, they were accepting Federation assistance and allowing expatriates to return.

"Ready for this?" she asked.

"I don't know how they'll respond." He admitted, "Follow my lead. Some of them will probably know me. As long I'm in front, we should be fine."

"And if it's not fine?" she asked dubiously.

He pointed at the Bajoran phaser on her hip, "Are you any good with that?"

"I'm all right." She answered, nervousness building.

"Are you a good runner?" he asked next.

She shrugged. He grimaced, "Well, if things get hairy just try to get out of the line of fire long enough to call the ship and have the computer beam you aboard."

She suddenly wished she were home.

* * *

T'Kir studied the navigational sensors of the ship she and Kort had purchased with satisfaction. She'd christened the ship the _SS Idiot's Delight_. Kort had grumbled unhappily over the name. She simply reminded him that her name was on the papers as the captain, so the name was _her _decision.

It had been years since she'd last stepped aboard a courier-scout ship like this one. They'd been the mainstay of the ragtag Maquis fleet. Scoutships like the _Odyssey _and even runabouts had been difficult to come by. Sitting at the ships helm reminded her of her days at the _Odyssey's_ helm and her stint aboard Ro Laren's converted Bajoran impulse cruiser before that. They were memories charged with more emotion than she wanted to deal with presently.

She sighed, _I can't run from the feelings forever. That'll just turn me into a typical Vulcan._

Originally, T'Kir's lapses into emotionalism had been due to her expanding, and uncontrolled, telepathic abilities. Since receiving help, she'd opted to explore her turbulent emotionalism out of a rebellious anger towards anything Vulcan as a retaliation of her people's logical acceptance of the loss of her home colony to the Cardassians. Now she began to see it in larger terms. She was a living representative of a meeting of the two paths chosen by the Vulcans and their wayward cousins, the Romulans.

A satisfied smile played at her lips as she pondered how representatives from either party would accept that analysis. She also knew she didn't give a damn what they thought. She was T'Kir of Shial, not of Vulcan or Romulus. Her smile faded and her mouth puckered as she tasted the lie behind that proclamation.

The colony had been established as a home for Vulcans whose logic was _different_ than the status quo as well as a home for Romulan defectors to the Federation. Mixed marriages had been common and her own parents had been a rarity in both having come from Vulcan. Her upbringing in a blended culture was a topic she rarely discussed with anyone. Even today, with the wartime alliance between the Star Empire and the Federation still unofficially in effect, the Federation's mistrust of anything Romulan permeated the culture.

It was T'Kir's own opinion that Vulcan had been more than happy to sign off on Shial's handover to the Cardassians in order to disguise the fact that peaceful co-existence was not only possible but had brought benefits to both sides. She had no evidence beyond her own experience with native Vulcans' reactions after learning of her birthworld. She felt the bubbling tide of anger rising within her, threatening to overwhelm her. Her control had diminished since coming aboard a ship that had been captured at the expense of the lives of fellow Maquis.

She glanced down at the helm to catch her hands in a clenched on the board's edge. She forced her hands to relax and strove to set her anger aside for now. She would not repress it in the Vulcan way. Rather, she opted for the Romulan way, she would bide her time until she could release her fury upon those that had killed her former comrades.

* * *

Macen and Nerrit had no sooner stepped out of the runabout and they found themselves surrounded. A mixed group of various Federation species aimed phaser rifles of myriad design at them. Macen's hand hovered over his holster even though going for the weapon housed within it would be tantamount to suicide. Nerrit's eyes coolly scanned the crowd. Silence reigned until an elderly human stepped through the ranks.

"As I live and breathe, Brin Macen." He said to himself, "Everyone, put your weapons down. They're friends."

Nerrit sighed in relief as the weapons lowered. Macen recognised the newcomer. His name was Orville Willamaker. He'd been a member of the Maquis since its inception. He'd always commanded the respect of his fellows and that trend seemed to persist.

"It's been awhile, Orville." Macen said with a smile.

"That it has." Orville agreed, "Would you join me for lunch and we can catch up?"

"We'd love to." Macen agreed as Nerrit nodded her agreement.

* * *

Radil's face darkened as the car began to slow. A bulbous mound rose out of the dry fields they'd traversed. It appeared to be the car's destination. It also seemed Radil was less than pleased to arrive here.

Daggit wondered why this was. Radil had signed on to work for the Orion Syndicate. It seemed to him that accepting such employment also entailed accepting the Syndicate's mores and methods. Her discomfort sparked hope in Daggit's heart.

_Perhaps she's not beyond reclamation after all_, he noted with satisfaction. He found himself empathising with this disillusioned soldier. He'd come close to following the same path before accepting his fate and seeking an outlet for his war-bred reflexes that corresponded with his moral centre. Although he had several differences with Starfleet, they fulfilled that internal need better than any other institution that he knew of.

He could see a reflection of that need and desire in Radil's unease as the car halted in front of the modular installation. Daggit presumed that the majority of it was whether located underground or a transporter beam away. The Syndicate's understandable concerns for secrecy and security were not visibly met by an installation this minuscule. Radil turned her head his way.

"Get out." She ordered coldly. The price of non-compliance was not expanded upon, but her tone adequately addressed the issue. He noted that her hand hovered near her disrupter. She gave him a chilly smile as she saw he acknowledged his situation.

He hopped out of the car without a word. Radil waited for the driver to release himself from his cockpit and stand at the ready before she leapt lightly to the ground. Daggit was pleased to confirm his suspicion regarding the driver's origin.

"This way." Radil informed him, nodding her head in the direction of the building.

His eyes quickly assessed the building. It was coloured to blend into the beige of the surrounding fields. It rose from the prairie grass like a multi-faceted growth. He'd seen similar installations on the trip here. A network of pipes had sprouted from the others, diving into the ground.

Daggit surmised that the other installations had been pumping stations. This one appeared to be one as well and included the pipes. The major discrepancy lay in the fact that unlike the other lush fields, this one's crops seemed neglected and unhealthy in comparison. The illusion would easily fool an orbital sweep and only failed upon close ground based inspection.

They'd parked in front of a doorway and Radil's nod indicated that was his destination. He approached it cautiously. Unlike Federation mag-lock doors, these doors did not slide into a recess in the wall. These were mounted on hinges that allowed them to swing out. A hand scanner alongside the door controlled the lock mechanism, backed by a rotating seal release that Daggit remembered from childhood classes on Angosia's earliest ventures under the sea and into space.

_These are pressure hatches_, he realised in surprise. This type of technology was archaic. If this was the height of the local's development, then this could very well be a pre-warp culture. The presence of the Syndicate here would constitute interference under the Prime Directive. That would mean little to the neutral and non-aligned worlders, but for Federation citizens participating in the Orion's enterprise here were culpable of the Federation's gravest charge in addition to the other criminal charges.

Since the driver had enlisted with the Syndicate during Angosia's instatement as a probationary member of the Federation, he and the other ex-commandos would be found guilty of this charge. Indictment could earn a life sentence to a penal colony. Daggit suddenly found himself fearing the completion of his assignment. It had nothing to do with personal fear, but rather a dread of what he would discover and have to report.

Radil watched him impassively as the driver released the lock and opened the door. She jerked her chin towards the open hatchway. Daggit walked in, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the low confines of the doorway. He stepped into an open area filled only with transporter pads and a control console.

_Well, I was right about that_, Daggit thought ruefully as he dreaded how much else he'd correctly deduced.

* * *

Macen and Nerrit were led to down a short trail to a small village centre. The original colonists to Parra IV had built it. Macen was glad to see the Jem'Hadar had left it intact as they forced the Maquis' retreat from the world. The architecture was a blend of styles and artistic influences from across the Alpha and Beta Quadrants. Its destruction would have been a senseless waste.

"Nice to see they left things intact." Macen commented as they entered the village.

Willamaker's face broke into a grin, "The Jem'Hadar may be bastards in a fight, but they aren't Cardies. They don't destroy things for the pleasure of it."

Macen's smile was wry, "The Founders probably removed that trait from their genetic stew."

The notion of the type of genetic manipulation the Dominion regularly practised was an anathema across the Federation. He understood Earth's revulsion, having faced down genetically engineered supermen in its past. Other species had faced disappointments of their own. It seemed an Alpha characteristic to fail at genetic manipulation, with the rare exception of a species like the Gideonites.

Willamaker's derisive snort was typical of the human reaction to the topic. Macen smiled. Nerrit shook her head as she shot him a reprimand with her eyes. He could almost hear her nervously admonishing him not to antagonise their host. So far, he was content with how well the young Bajoran was holding up.

Willamaker led them to a small building that resembled a dome on a square base. It was built out of native marble and its outer skin was lined with quartz. It was beautiful and the colours rippling through it seemed organic. It had been the old colonial governor's house.

Macen turned towards Willamaker with eyebrows raised in surprise, "You're the Colonial Governor?"

Willamaker shrugged, "As much as anyone is these days."

Macen's eyes hardened as Nerrit spoke for the first time, "What do you mean?"

Willamaker cast a quick glance around. Several colonists were milling about. Many had recognised Macen and a flurry of conversation buzzed about the square. He gave them a broad smile.

"I think it'd be best to catch you up on local events inside. News of you're arrival has spread and is swiftly turning into a reason to quit work on our restoration and planting work."

Macen exchanged a rueful glance with Willamaker, "I remember those days too well."

Willamaker ushered them into the house. The entrance led to a meeting hall with benches facing a podium flanked by tow tables. A door was located behind the podium. It led to the living quarters. Macen recalled that the upstairs held the bedrooms while the lower part, not occupied with the hall, held the kitchen, dining room, several studies and a day room.

They were led to the dining room and offered seats. Willamaker pulled Nerrit's chair out and waited for her to sit before helping her push it forward. Macen grinned in recollection of scenes of Willamaker doing that for every lady of his acquaintance. The man had been bred to manners higher than those currently in vogue on Earth.

"Lunch should be served shortly." Willamaker assured them, "Two other guests will be joining us shortly as well. In the meantime, and shall I have refreshments brought out?"

"Something to drink would be appreciated." Nerrit replied. Macen nodded his concurrence.

They watched with some amusement as Willamaker pulled a comm badge out of his vest pocket and activated it. The Maquis had certainly changed. There was a time that no communicator would have been used for anything as mundane as ordering drinks. It would have been a weapon employed in their war against the Cardassians.

Macen folded his hands in front of him, "You were going to update us on how things are going here?"

Willamaker nodded in recollection, "Certainly. Although, I was hoping you'd introduce me to your charming friend."

Macen grinned, "Orville Willamaker, meet Nerrit Wen."

"I'm delighted." Willamaker said elegantly. He gave Macen a questioning glance, "Whatever happened to Lisea Danan?"

Macen's grin faded somewhat, "She joined the Daystrom Institute."

Willamaker's eyebrows rose, "I'm impressed. A boon to science no doubt."

Macen quietly concurred as Willamaker began his explanation, "You know how the Dominion attacked and drove us off our worlds, just as the Cardassians were on the verge of capitulating."

Macen nodded as Willamaker continued, "Those of us that escaped were rounded up by Starfleet border patrols or Federation ships. We were all consigned to penal colonies. Some of us were released with the outbreak of the war since Starfleet's early losses found them needing soldiers with intimate knowledge of the area."

"That was essentially the offer they made to me when the _Odyssey_ was picked up." Macen replied.

Willamaker nodded, "We'd heard about your impressment back into service."

Neither Macen nor Nerrit reacted to that bit of news. The Maquis had always been experts at ferreting out information. It was a survivalist trait that had served them well in the war. Macen had helped hone that ability.

"How did you return?" Nerrit asked.

Willamaker laughed as an assistant brought three glasses of lemonade then left, "With the Dominion gone and the Cardassian Union in pieces, both the Federation and the Bajorans wanted a buffer area in case things went sour in Cardassia's resurrection."

"I thought the allies were behind the new Legate." Macen interjected, "Didn't he aid their effort to defeat the Dominion?"

Willamaker's smile had a cynical tinge, "The Legate is many things, but first and foremost he's a pragmatic patriot. He wants to rebuild the Union and restore it to strength. Even though he's spent years abroad, his notion of strength is still different than that of the Federation."

"So why abandon Cardassian claims on the Maquis worlds?" Macen inquired.

"Probably because they don't have the ability or manpower to spend patrolling them." Willamaker snorted, "That combined with the fact the Bajorans insisted upon it. Since the Bajorans are the conduit for the relief efforts to Cardassia, they really didn't have much choice."

He shook his head sadly, "We're another Poland."

The reference was lost on Macen and Nerrit, but they could tell it wasn't a positive one.

"So why return?" Macen asked.

Willamaker's eyes flashed, "And abandon everything we bled and died for?" His temper settled somewhat and his wry smile returned, "Besides, who else would want to live here?"

Macen smiled warmly at him, "I just wanted to make certain you'd returned of your own volition and not because of some Federation deal."

Willamaker laughed, "There was that too. They offered early release to any Maquis that was willing to resettle. They provided transport, seed stock, communications gear, medical and technical supplies, even a few transports so we could travel between worlds and assist each other. Hell, they even threw in weapons so we could create our own police and defence forces."

Macen and Nerrit exchanged amused glances at this. The irony of Starfleet spending nearly four years trying to apprehend the members if the Maquis and strangle their supply lines only to provide them with freedom and an abundance of the very supplies they'd restricted before was too great not be appreciated. _It's also representative of the Federation's policy reversals_, Macen thought glumly. The only thing that seemed an enduring policy was the Prime Directive and even that was being bent beyond recognition if rumours surrounding the incident in the Briar Patch a couple of years ago were accurate.

"How much have you rebuilt?" Macen asked.

Willamaker smiled modestly, "We've planted colonies on fifteen of our worlds. We have survey teams and stake plotters on another dozen. We've established police forces and medical services on every world, however limited they are, and even established a central government that all the worlds are members of."

"Already?" Macen and Nerrit asked in startled unison.

"The draft for the constitution of the Maquis Colonial Confederacy was drafted before the Dominion attack. After the war, we just needed the Federation's Colonial Office ratify it and we were set."

"And you've received approval?" Macen asked in virtual disbelief.

"Yup." Willamaker grinned, "The Federation Council's so anxious to get people back into this region that they were willing to grant us virtually any concession we asked for. That's how we got to skip the Colonial Office's direct control and go straight to oversight status."

Macen's expression was one of amazement. The disputed colonies had all been at that status before they were handed over to Cardassia as an appeasement to avoid another war. It was unheralded for a shattered colony to be returned to such independence without an extensively restored infrastructure. Although the Federation's desperation undoubtedly arose from the ill will derived from the perceived abandonment of the colonies years ago.

"In fact," Willamaker continued, "as soon as we can raise our population levels, I'm willing to wager the Council will even be open to formal acceptance as full members of the Federation."

"That's a bet no one here would take." A lightly accented contralto cut in as two figures entered the room from behind where Macen and Nerrit were seated. Although they recognised the voice, both turned to be certain of the owner's identity. Her tall, lanky form, rounded features, snowy white hair and crystal blue eyes were as unmistakable.

"Sveta!" Macen said happily as he stood and embraced her.

Nerrit remained detached from the hug and noticed that the man that had entered with Sveta appeared as amused by the display as he felt. He was a Bajoran, around Macen's own apparent age. He also had a vague military bearing although he looked too relaxed to ever have worn a uniform. His brown was long enough that he tucked the stray locks behind his ears even though they valiantly resisted the attempt.

Macen released Sveta and she turned towards Nerrit, "It's always nice to meet a friend of Brin's." Nerrit shook her hand and was surprised by the strength of the other woman's grip.

Sveta cast an impish glance his way, "What happened to Danan? I always thought you'd run away with T'Kir, not some new woman."

"Glad to see you are too." He replied wryly, then cocked an eyebrow towards her companion, "Who's your friend?"

A smile of sheer delight formed on her lips, "This is my husband, Korepanova Roran."

The look of open-mouthed, utter astonishment she received from him only broadened her smile.


	12. Chapter 12

153

Uprising

"You're what?" Macen exclaimed.

"My husband." Sveta replied, her pride evident in that fact evident, "Korepanova Roran, former Resistance cell leader and Maquis."

"Korepanova?" Nerrit repeated, "I know that it's Bajoran custom for a man to assume the wife's family name upon marriage, but this is the first time I've heard of a Bajoran adopting a human name."

Roran smiled sheepishly, "I told Sveta that even though she wasn't marrying a Bajoran, or living a typical Bajoran life, that I wanted to have at least one small part of my cultural traditions survive."

Nerrit studied him for a moment, then smiled warmly, "You're wiser about other cultures than I am then." Her obvious embarrassment over the topic piqued curiosity, but no asked.

"How did you two meet?" Macen asked, still stunned.

"During the war with the Cardassians." Sam answered, "I'd come to the Maquis after most of my former Resistance comrades accepted Minister Shaakkar's amnesty offer. We met shortly after she'd recruited several of her former Starfleet friends and needed someone to assist a few of them in setting up their own operations." He glanced towards his wife, "Wasn't Chakotay the first one I worked with?"

She nodded with a sad look on her face. Although it had been learned that Chakotay and most of his Maquis crew were still alive, the fact they were trapped in the Delta Quadrant meant that they would likely never see their old comrades and loved ones again. Svetlana Korepanova and Chakotay had attended Starfleet Academy together and later she'd recruited him into the ranks of the Maquis. She felt a twinge of guilt at knowing he'd still be in his home Quadrant if he hadn't accepted her offer.

"You know Chakotay?" Macen inquired.

"I served on the _Liberty_. It was right after he assumed command. I helped him co-ordinate efforts with other cell commanders and recruit his own crew. I didn't exactly get along with his second, Seska, and decided to assist other new commanders establish their operations." Roran admitted with a sheepish grin.

"Who did get along with Seska?" Sveta snorted.

"Chakotay did." Macen commented with a smirk, "On several occasions."

Sveta laughed, "God, what a memory. I think we should focus on some other topics right now though."

Macen caught the hint and turned towards Nerrit, "Could you excuse us?"

Roran smiled pleasantly at her, "I'll wait with you. They'll be discussing some dark secrets and as a newly married man, I prefer not to overhear incriminating confessions from my dear wife's lips."

Sveta rolled her eyes at his sarcasm, but his words had their desired effect and Nerrit left the room wearing a smile. Macen turned back to find his former colleagues studying him closely, "Have I shown up at a bad time?"

"No." Sveta replied, her voice tensing, "But I have to ask you if you're still working for Starfleet Intelligence?"

Macen's smile was one born of comprehension and relief, "Yes, but that's only indirectly why I'm here. Starfleet didn't send me. I'm here because a group of officers has gone rogue, taken three starships and become privateers for the Andergani."

"I can see why that would bother Starfleet." Sveta admitted, "But why are you involved?"

Macen's eyes held hers, "They've butchered at least one crew of a ship they raided, maybe more. I was sent to discover who they are. In my first encounter with them, they blew up the _Odyssey_ and kidnapped my engineer."

Sveta could hear the anger underscoring his every word. She knew how much that ship meant to him, as well as those under his command. The latter trait had put him in good stead with the rest of the Maquis. Macen would move heaven and hell to protect his people and to recover them if they were captured.

"What brought you here?" Willamaker asked, "We're a long way from Oligarchy territory."

"Analysis of their tactics revealed Maquis patterns." Macen informed them sadly, "I was hoping to track down leads on disaffected fighters that decided to forgo rebuilding the colonies and strike out on their own."

Sveta and Willamaker exchanged a long, solemn look before she spoke, "They're rumours of Maquis survivors joining up with the Orion Syndicate and the Andergani Oligarchy. We haven't had time to look into it thoroughly, but I'll make some inquiries and give you what I have."

"Thank you." He said appreciatively.

"You know," she said with a hopeful glimmer in her eye, "we're building our police forces. You could easily have a Chief Inspector's post if you wanted to run our Intelligence division."

Macen gave her a rueful smile, "It's more tempting than you can possibly imagine, but I have to finish this first."

"I assumed that." She replied sarcastically, "I meant after the mission. You're a Maquis at heart. That's why you kept Starfleet Intelligence off our backs for so long."

Hid faced coloured in embarrassment, "I never knew how much Eddington discovered or suspected."

Sveta broke into a crooked smile remembering Michael Eddington, the former Security Chief of _DS9 _and the last leader of the Maquis, "He knew just about everything. What he didn't, Ro filled him in on."

"I always wondered why no one came after me." Macen admitted.

"Michael had played the same game for almost as long as you had." Sveta reminded him, "He knew exactly how much it was costing you and Danan to walk that tightrope."

She saw the relief in his eyes, "So, what about that post?"

He chuckled, "Like I said, ask me again after this missions done."

"Would T'Kir be coming with you?" Sveta asked with a tinge of apprehension.

"Probably." He laughed.

Her face twisted up in an expression of annoyance, "I'll have to think about whether or not it's worth getting back to you."

* * *

The person Sveta and Macen were discussing was encountering a difficulty as vexing as they occasionally found her.

"What d'you mean you can't pilot a ship?" she growled in Kort's direction.

The Klingon shrugged, "I studied medicine and weapons design at the Imperial Academy. Piloting and navigation were not part of my curriculum." He replied haughtily.

"The computer practically flies the ship on its own." Her voice rose in exasperation, "How hard can it be?"

"I will not attempt to pilot this ship." Kort declared adamantly.

"Kort," her voice was low, "if I don't get the damn engines back on-line, we are just going to drift helplessly through space until someone finds us or we get sucked down a gravity well. The former is unlikely and the latter is certain death. Unless you've suddenly developed engineering skills I'm unaware of, I'm the only one out of the two of us qualified to make the necessary repairs."

Her eyes narrowed as she leaned in close to his face, "So sit down, shut the hell up and let me get to work!"

The vehemence with which she said the words didn't faze Kort whatsoever. The look in her eyes, however, caused him to obediently plop down into the pilot's chair. Kort had never seen such a look upon a Klingon or a Romulan. It was a cold, calculating appraising stare that promised more violence than any heated stare could. For the first time since meeting her, he was painfully aware of the fact that she had been incarcerated in a mental institution.

He released a carefully held breath as she strode off the bridge and headed for the engines. They had been underway at Warp 6 for nearly two days now. In another twelve hours at that speed, they would reach the Andergani frontier. Kort was suddenly looking forward to getting off the ship.

* * *

Macen awoke, stretched and released a long sigh. He and Nerrit had been put up in separate rooms in the Governor's House. After the meeting with Sveta and Willamaker, he'd gone on a tour of the farms surrounding the village. Nerrit had been left behind in town in order to "investigate the cultural synthesis of the town".

She'd been unhappy when Macen, Sveta, and Roran had returned late that evening. Macen had asked for a report of her investigation and she had given him a flip remark. This led to a reprimand that left the Bajoran tight-lipped, but far more informative. After concluding her summary, she had immediately retired for the evening.

Macen shook his head and did the same. He'd been reunited with nearly half a dozen former comrades in arms today. The experience had been a synthesis of joy and longing, as Sveta had undoubtedly intended it to be. He admired her subtle attempts at trying to persuade him to stay as much as he was annoyed by it at the same time.

Sveta had always been a master of gentle persuasion. Previously her approach had been tainted with anger, that was now gone. It seemed to be an effect brought on by her marriage to the taciturn Roran. Macen had to admit he liked Roran and thought he was a good match for the fiery Sveta. He was happy for her, and for the Maquis that had returned to complete their efforts of building new worlds.

Whether or not he was in a place where he could join them remained to be seen. His skills did little to lend themselves to building a colony. Fighting a guerrilla war or investigating criminals was more his area of expertise. He knew the shattered colonies needed capable men and women to help safeguard its future. He desperately wanted to participate in that effort but felt torn by the need he saw in the Federation.

The Federation was at a vital crux in its existence. The next few years could go a long way to amending the faults that had sparked the Maquis in the first place. They could also be utilised to hasten the Federation down the path towards reactionary empire. The delicate balancing act between idealism and pragmatism the Federation was founded upon had not always worked, but the effort itself was inspiring.

The Allies' victory over the Dominion spawned a new sense of superiority that Macen found distasteful. Confidence in one's culture to survive and adapt to new stimulus was one matter, a deep rooted belief that the culture was inherently superior and would therefor tolerate "lesser" cultures until they were enlightened smacked of imperialism. Macen saw the signs of this mentality filtered in various degrees throughout the young officer corps.

These officers had been inducted into Starfleet just prior to the war or during its pursuit. They had endured the darkest days in Starfleet history and seen triumph snatched away from the gravest sequence of sequential disasters. The fleet had been ill prepared for the Dominion attacks following on the heels of the Borg attack on Earth and venture into the past. Its ships undermanned, ill repaired and facing a relentless foe, Starfleet had nevertheless overcome in the end with the aid of the Klingons and Romulans.

All three governments had suffered as a result of the war. All three had also received a strong ego boost as they faced their defeated foe across the negotiating table. Victory possesses its own intoxicating qualities that the Romulans and the Klingons built their societies around. Macen feared the Federation would follow suit after facing its own near destruction. They had repulsed the Borg invaders that had destroyed his planet and people on multiple occasions, but those Borg came in single cubes, not in the massed forces they preferred in the Delta Quadrant.

The Jem'Hadar had been the first seemingly inexhaustible foe the Federation had faced. The Founders' abilities to disguise themselves as loved ones and friends had left its impact on the collective psyche. The Breen attack on Earth had scarred public perception far more than the land or buildings. The occupation of Betazed and other outlying worlds had risen a clamour for a stronger defensive network, an increase in the number of ships, and new member worlds from which to draw resources and recruits.

Macen had eschewed the growing shift of Starfleet towards purely scientific missions but had never sought a purely military mission for the service either. The fleet functioned best as the Federation's protector and explorer. The number of hulls constructed around purely military lines was increasing since the success of the _Akira_ and _Defiant_-classes. The new _Sabre_ and _Steamrunner_-classes were much more heavily armed and less geared towards scientific inquiry than the predecessors they were replacing.

Starfleet had been caught unprepared by the Dominion. Many of the changes in design and mission philosophy were necessary and just. There was a limit, however, and Macen feared the frightened Council members and their constituents would not recognise it when they saw it. The Special Investigations Division was designed to investigate flaws in the system and to promote reform as well as reveal external threats.

Macen knew the formation of the SID resulted primarily from the growing revelations surrounding Section 31. That enigmatic organisation's 300 year old shroud of mystery had been pierced as a result of the efforts of Dr. Julian Bashir on _DS9_ and Macen's discovery of the Gulag. The SID was an attempt by Starfleet to assume many of the roles Section 31 had assumed. Due to the very nature of the tasks, it would be incalculably easy for the fledgling Division to follow in its predecessor's path.

Section 31 acted as a law unto itself. They were the shadowy "subconscious" that dealt with the seamier and more ideological threats to the Federation's wellbeing. They proactively removed potential obstacles to growth or security as well as suppressed internal "social digressions". They had been founded by the Federation Charter but no longer had direct oversight from the Council. They operated in a void and had exploited that fact to circumvent the laws that typically restrained Starfleet and the Federation's other offices.

Macen knew how appealing that methodology was. More than once over his eighty years in Starfleet Intelligence, he'd wished for free reign to dispose of a situation as he saw fit. Those moments were typically bred out of frustration and following through with his impulses would have been disastrous. Operating an entire organisation along such lines was a malignant cancer that would consume the organisation and that which it ostensibly served to protect.

He released a sorrowful sigh as he headed off to the sonic shower. His loyalties were well and truly divided. He'd joined the SID in order to help steer its course away from following its predecessor. The knowledge that the Maquis Confederacy had been founded and could use his expertise also weighed heavily upon him. He wished he could synthesise his obligations to both, but saw no way to do so. When the time came to choose, he had no idea which he would pursue.

He stepped out of the shower and completed his other hygienic preparations for the day after dressing. He'd put his clothes in the 'fresher overnight to be cleaned. The small cubical device worked along the same ultrasonic principles as the shower. Bajoran clothes were woven from domestically grown fibres, it was a waste to recycle them in a replicator when other methods were available to care for them.

Macen buckled the holster belt then strapped down the thigh pouch that would carry the weapon. He picked the phased plasma pistol up from the dresser and shoved it into place in the holster. Unlike Federation worlds, weapons were typically worn in the Maquis colonies. It was the heritage of a decades long border dispute guerrilla war.

He placed his tricorder in its pouch on his belt and proceeded downstairs. Willamaker was already in the dining Room, as well as Nerrit. The Bajoran intelligence officer still seemed stiff, but no longer sullen. That suited Macen. He was in no mood to have to coddle her bruised feelings.

Sveta entered the Room just as Willamaker had begun to ask if Macen would like anything. Macen recognised her purposeful walk and the stern expression on her face. She had news for him, and it was news she didn't like. Macen knew instantly that his suspicions had borne out.

"I'll have coffee and oatmeal if you have any." Macen informed Willamaker.

"Two of our principle crops." Willamaker replied happily and proceeded to the kitchen to inform the cooks.

Sveta stopped in front of Macen with her arms akimbo. Her fists, firmly planted on her hips, seemed to be seeking targets. Her normally clear eyes were clouded with a furious storm of emotion. Even during the worst of the war, Sveta had rarely been in a mood this dark. The time Macen had seen her this way was when they'd been betrayed by one their own.

Remembering how she'd dealt with Cardassians, Macen wondered if he should prepare for the worst, "What'd you find?"

"You were right." She snarled with indignation, "Several Maquis cells sought refuge in Andergani territory during the Jem'Hadar's purge of the systems. They've been operating as 'free-traders' ever since."

Macen smiled grimly at her savage use of the euphemism pirates typically applied to themselves, "Any idea where I can find a few of them?"

Her smile expressed the bitter irony of the situation even before she spoke, "They have quite an enterprise going on looting Cardassia Prime and her colonies."

Macen shook his head. He could see the temptation in the act, but knew it was petty, "I'll find them."

Her eyes locked in on his, never wavering, "I know you will. Do what you have to do. If Starfleet balks, tell them to go to hell."

He broke into a lop-sided grin, "I'm sure they'll love hearing that."

Sveta snorted, "How long has it been since either one of us gave a damn what Starfleet _thinks_?"

Macen shrugged, "Just figured it needed to be said."


	13. Chapter 13

164

Uprising

Daggit and Radil materialised, for the fourth time, in a dimly lit room. Daggit shook his head, trying to clear the disorientation he felt. Single stage transports were strange enough, a multiple stop, sequenced transport was totally unnerving. They had solidified to be instantly transported again five times by Daggit's count. They were no longer even necessarily on the same world much less the same system depending on how much power the relays had had where they were placed.

Radil gave him sardonic grin, "You get over it after a few times."

Daggit eyed her sceptically, "Frankly, I'd rather not have to."

Her laugh had a bitter edge, "If you sign up, that'll seem pleasant compared to other assignments."

He gave her an inquiring look, but she wasn't divulging any details. She nodded towards a doorway that Daggit could see now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom _and _restored solidity. Unlike the pressure hatch at his departure point, this was a standard mag-lock design. He was slightly amused by Radil's insistence upon hanging behind him, granting her the ability to shoot him if he attempted an escape or a fight.

The door slid open. Beyond it lay a brightly-lit room with opulent furnishings. A mix of various aliens filled the room. All were armed, and with a few exceptions, looked skilled in their use. A lushly cushioned chair sat atop an upraised platform dominated the room.

Seated in the chair was the most corpulent Orion Daggit had ever seen. The race's high gravity origins tended to breed stocky males anyway, but this exceeded stocky by at least a hundred kilos. Two thickly muscled Orions stood to either side of him. The Orion's requisite harem of dancing girls sat before his chair, each of their eyes blazing hatred for their "master".

Daggit suppressed a shudder after glancing into their eyes. _Half the galaxy wants to mate with an Orion dancing girl?_ He wondered dubiously, _Half the galaxy's nuts!_ He supposed the attraction lay in the women's reputed lethality, which he believed in instantly.

The Orion seated upon the chair spoke a few words in his native tongue. These words were then shouted by one of his bodyguard/attendants. All noise in the room lapsed into silence as the milling bodies divided to grant the Orion a clear view of Daggit. The Orion's eyes narrowed as he appraised the Angosian. After a moment, he motioned for Daggit to step closer.

"Good luck." Radil breathed cynically as he obeyed.

_Thanks a lot_, Daggit thought bitterly as he warily approached the waiting Orion chieftain. He'd researched the cultural structure of the Orions as he travelled for this meeting. They were arranged in complex clan structures derived from ancient nomadic raiding parties. The latest twist in their operational mentality had resulted from discovering Iotia and the "Book" left behind by early Federation scouts.

The Book had been a historical study of the Terran mobsters of the early 20th century. Unexpectedly, the Iotians had subsequently based their entire culture upon this text. After a subsequent visit by the _Enterprise_ commanded by James T. Kirk, they'd added emulating Starfleet to their cultural niche. Much to the Federation's chagrin, they still retained elements of the Mafioso mentality and tended to trade with anyone that showed up out of a stubborn sense of defiance.

The Orions had copied the book and engaged in a copious study of it. From their research the Syndicate had been born. The fractured clans were united for the first time in their turbulent history. Unfortunately for law enforcement officials across the Alpha and Beta Quadrants, their newly united efforts were squarely aimed at expanding their cartels and smuggling franchises.

The Syndicate had stumbled upon a great secret for success. They could simply suborn local criminal elements, place them under their influence and backing, and let them take the majority of the risks. The clan lords were literally swimming in latinum and had supplicants coming in droves. The Syndicate had transformed itself into a massive corporation complete with benefit packages and retirement programs.

_Which would be great if they weren't built around sentient exploitation._ Daggit observed bitterly. Their lure for acquiring Angosian soldiers was typical of the Syndicate's tactics. They dealt in every known vice, and a few that probably hadn't been widely disclosed yet.

Daggit was halfway to the "throne" when one of the two bulky Orions stepped down and began to approach him. The man's square jawed face was permanately drawn into a sneer thanks to a jagged scar that ran from the left corner of his mouth to his temple. The eagerness in the man's movements hinted at impending violence.

"The applicant will now prove his qualifications." An Andorian major domo announced.

"And how do I do that?" Daggit shouted over the din of wagers being placed.

The Andorian's face split into a bemused smile, "You survive a battle to the death."

* * *

T'Kir stared listlessly at the viewscreen. It seemed as though they'd been travelling out here for days. Technically, they had but the journey seemed longer due to her unreleased desire to exact vengeance upon someone. The boredom and frustration had inspired her to add to her "renegade" appearance.

Her curved ears now sported several studs and two hoops apiece. Vulcan women typically only wore a single ruby stud in their left ear until marriage then they went unadorned. T'Kir kept the ruby, but it was now near the apex of her pointed lobes. She liked the effect and pondered whether or not to add an earcuff to the right to balance the extra stone the ruby gave the left.

She dismissed the question as she ran her fingers through her dark hair. She'd used a follicle stimulator to grow her hair out. She'd kept it fairly short throughout the war and her incarceration. It now reached the nape of her neck.

The new length created problems that she hadn't faced in years. Her hair kept falling over her eyes, blocking her vision. Luckily, Grace had shown her a human device for keeping it restrained. T'Kir wondered where Terrans had ever derived the word "scrunchie" from, but at least the blasted thing worked.

_Or at least it does _most_ of the time_, she thought bitterly as she tucked another errant strand behind her ear, _at least my ears are the perfect shape to hold some of this back._

Looking in a mirror earlier, she had to admit she liked how she looked. She wondered how Macen would react when he saw the change. She'd first cut her hair shortly after meeting him. It had been a desperate act. She'd been so overloaded with trying to block out everyone else's stray thoughts and fears that removing any other concerns seemed "logical" at the time.

She smirked at her immediate referencing of logic. She was a cultural aberration, but she was still a Vulcan. Logic had been bred into her since before she was born. It was one of the reasons why she was so good with computers. She understood how they thought and how they didn't, which was their weakness.

"Are we almost there yet?" Kort growled as he entered the cockpit.

She gave him a cross look as she answered archly, "I don't know, and d'you know you sound like a child?"

Kort sneered at her. She expected him to stick out his tongue, but he refrained. She didn't. She returned to her instruments while listening to Klingon curses muttered behind her.

_At least he's getting creative_, she observed dryly as Kort took a deep breath and launched into another tirade of murmured threats and descriptions of ancestry.

She was about to comment on his description of how he would abuse her corpse when the sensors detected a ship ahead of them, "Heads up! We've got company."

"Where do you want me?" he asked, instantly serious and professional.

"Man the weapons." She replied.

She ignored his gleeful smirk as he sat down behind the console.

* * *

Dracas coldly watched the display on the vidcom for several moments before turning away. Alicia Witt had been curled in a ball, the tatters of her Starfleet uniform drawn about her when her tormentors had arrived. She had launched herself at the first with savage howl. He'd been taken away, broken and bleeding after they managed to subdue her with a neurocortical suppressant.

After that, they placed her immobile form on the floor. They destroyed the last vestiges of her uniform before beginning their "administrations". Dracas could see the horrified comprehension of the events in her eyes. They took her singly and in groups. The fact that Dracas had once considered these _beings_ fellow officers disgusted him.

Being born in darkened tunnels had granted Dracas a well-developed sense of hearing. They picked up a cry of pure frustration and the static discharge of the forcefield in the cell next to him. Trapped within, Hilde Edgars managed to pull her cot from its brackets and throw it at the field. Seeing that fail, she pounded on the walls of her cell yelling threats in the vain hope it would distract Witt's attackers.

Edgars had worn herself out in the hour it took for Witt's tormentors to exhaust themselves. Spencer made an appearance as his followers were leaving the cell. The ship's medic went in to check on Witt. She reported treating Witt for various bruises, contusions, and a bleeding vulva before departing.

Spencer stood triumphantly before Edgars cell, "Have you had enough, Captain? Commander Witt undoubtedly has."

"Go to hell." Edgars managed to snarl, despite her ravaged throat.

"If it exists, I undoubtedly will." Spencer replied nonchalantly, "We are almost at my base of operations. The Commander has already proven she has _usefulness. _ If you do not do the same, and that you are properly subservient before we arrive, then I shall execute you and that will leave you hapless first officer in my tender care."

_Bastard knows what buttons to push, doesn't he?_ She acknowledged bitterly.

"What do you want?" She asked wearily, "If you're after a roll in the hay, several of your men and a couple of the women beat you to it."

Spencer laughed, "I assure you Captain, I'm not after sexual gratification. What I want is far more heady and far more satisfying."

"What?" Edgars asked, perplexed.

"I want to swear loyalty to me in a broadcast ceremony." He replied as though it were a small matter, "Then I want you to surrender Starfleet's latest security and encryption ciphers."

She stared at him slack-jawed, Spencer tried soothing her, "I know it seems a bit much, but how else can I ensure your loyalty, and you secure dear Alicia's privacy?"

He chuckled at the glare of unbridled hatred he received, "Think about it. You have almost a day to consider it."

Spencer began to walk off. He stopped a brief second to spare a glance into Dracas' cell. The engineer sat mutely, staring blankly at the wall. Spencer shook his head and went on his way.

Dracas waited until the vidcom blanked out before returning to work. The unit slid easily out of the wall. He began rerouting ODN lines and isolinear chips. It took several experimental combinations and adjustments before he was able capture an image of Hilde Edgars in her cell.

The Captain paced the outline of her cell like a caged predator. That image remained constant as Dracas made another set of changes. Edgars flopped down on her cot with a frustrated sigh. Dracas chose that moment to activate the comm into her cell.

"Don't worry about it, Captain." His voice piped in suddenly, startling her, "We'll be out of here soon enough, and then we can feed that sick son of a bitch his heart."

* * *

Grace took a break from the seemingly endless record search. She'd known there was a reason she'd opted to be a pilot rather than an administrative officer. She found the weekly conn reports to be excessive. _This _stack, comprising the careers of over 3000 individuals, was the biggest waste of terabytes Grace could imagine.

She stood from her chair and stretched. Her back made a cracking noise that made her wince. Her body was going to be unhappily reminding her about this assignment for weeks to come. She wondered if her teammates were having greater success when the door to the small office slid open.

Grace turned, expecting to see the yeoman that had been assigned as her liaison. Her chagrined smile faded as she recognised the lurking presence before her. Although he wore a Starfleet uniform, he wasn't entirely Starfleet. He was her controller from Section 31. They'd come for her at long last.

* * *

The _Javelin_ leapt to warp speed as Macen locked in their course for Cardassia Prime. Nerrit spelled him at the conn while he retreated to the back to change into his Outbound Ventures uniform. She had already done so during their departure. She sat impassively, watching the shifting display of the warpfield as he returned.

"Okay, what's bothering you?" He asked as he slid back into his seat.

Her eyes narrowed, "What makes you think anything's bothering me?"

"Maybe the way you react to every question like I'm a Dominion interrogator." He replied.

"It's... nothing." She equivocated.

Maven rolled his eyes, "Listen to me, we're on a dangerous assignment. Our survival depends on how ell we co-operate. Right now, you're not very co-operative."

She gave him a stony glare, "Like you were co-operative when we were on Parra IV."

Macen broke into a victorious grin, "So that's what's bothering you."

Her gaze became angrier, "You cut me out of most of the discussions and I still don't know what the hell happened down there. All I do know is that we now on our way to Cardassia Prime to find some more of your friends!"

Macen couldn't quite tell which term she applied the most apprehension, Cardassia or friends. Although Bajor was leading the way in rebuilding Cardassia, it was primarily motivated by a desire to prevent any further Cardassian intentions towards the Bajoran worlds. Macen knew that the wounds in the Bajoran soul inflicted by the Cardassian occupation would linger for decades, if not centuries. The fear of Cardassian aggression had been the motivator for the official Bajoran condemnation of the Maquis.

His expression became stern, "Listen to me, you were left out of matters that don't concern this mission. You have all the pertinent details. Anything else that was shared was on a personal note and privy to your ears."

She looked slightly taken aback, Macen broke into a grin, "Fair's fair, after all, have you disclosed all the details of your life in the Militia?"

Slowly, a rueful smile took control of her lips, "No. I suppose not."

Macen shrugged, "Everything you need to know, you know. I suggest you change your attitude and get your mind back on our mission."

Nerrit nodded, "I see your point. I'll try to stay focused."

"Good." Macen said gruffly as he turned back towards his console, "Otherwise, I was going to beam you aboard the first Bajoran transport we came across and send you back to your homeworld."

Nerrit descended into remorseful silence for the duration of their trip. Macen heartened to see that this one was had a reflective tone rather than the previous sulkiness. Fates knew he'd spent enough time critiquing his own mistakes. He hoped she was as fast a learner as she appeared, they really didn't have any time for education.

He really couldn't blame her for her relative inexperience. Although the Bajorans were one of the first spacefaring races in the known galaxy, they'd abandoned interstellar flight a thousand years before most of the Alpha Quadrant had taken to the stars. They'd settled down to their own system and happily stayed there, obscure and unnoticed until that fateful day nearly seventy years ago when the Cardassians arrived. The sixty-six years of occupation permanently altered their outlook on interstellar travel.

The ship dropped out of warp and both of them had their first glimpse of Cardassia Prime. It was a golden orb in the distance. It was still too far away to make out continents or features. Macen glanced at Nerrit and saw her face reflect the mix of apprehension and morbid curiosity he felt.

Although the last two decades of his life seemed to revolve around this place and its people, he'd never visited it before. He suddenly longed for a familiar face from his days of fighting against this planet's offspring. Danan, Tulley, Chakotay, and countless others were all gone. Only T'Kir, and Ro in an obscure way, was still with him. He suddenly realised how much he wished she were here with him on this mission rather than Nerrit.

Security officials commed him. After several minutes of transmitting credentials, he received permission to land. The planet was ringed with native _Galor_-class cruisers as well as Federation starships, Klingon battlecruisers, Romulan warbirds, and freighters of every model and description from across two quadrants. The tiny runabout went unnoticed amidst the bustle as it descended into the atmosphere.

They landed in a spaceport adjacent to the capital city. Sveta's informants had revealed that a raiding party would be looting areas still under reconstruction. The Cardassians' rebellion against the Dominion in the final days of the war had cost them millions in lives as well as the destruction of entire cities and suburbs. The inner city of the capital had been spared only due to the Founder's presence there.

Even with the massive aid it was receiving, the Cardassian Union was making slow progress rebuilding its shattered neighbourhoods. Many of them had turned into warrens for looting and pillaging. The security forces were desperately trying to capture the predators, but they were understaffed and woefully exhausted. Aid workers and natives alike had an unfortunate tendency to disappear in the wrecked areas. Macen and Nerrit were headed into the heart of just such an area. It was not something either of them looked forward to.


	14. Chapter 14

178

Uprising

Daggit ducked as the Orion's massive arm swung overhead. Not only was the brute massive, but damnably fast. Daggit was unarmed, but his knife-wielding opponent continued to press his advantage. Daggit sported several shallow cuts, but the Orion's nose and lips were spilling opaque blood as well from a few well-timed blows.

A human, Klingon or even a Romulan, would have been fairly hobbled by the precise attacks Daggit had delivered to his foe's knees, wrists, and face. The Orion's thick musculature and bone structure kept minimising the damage. Only the Angosian's heightened reflexes continued to spare him. The mental conditioning received from the creators of the Angosian "super-soldiers" provided subconscious analysis of the Orion's techniques, but he was having little success in defeating the simple genetic advantages the Orion was blessed, or cursed, with.

Daggit dodged another jab and snapped a kick into the side of the Orion's knee. He finally heard a _crunch_ and the Orion emitted a rewarding cry of pain. He didn't go down, but he now had a noticeable limp. Daggit was pleased, seeing fear in the Orion's eyes for the first time.

And _that_ could save his life. It was all he could do not to reveal his own exhaustion. He forced himself to flash the brute a confident smile he didn't feel. The effect was worth effort.

The Orion hesitated. He was far too used to his foes simply crumbling before him. Dedicated resistance was as unexpected as it was unprepared for. Essentially a bully at heart, the Orion began to swiftly lose heart after tasting pain.

Daggit instinctively read the change in the Orion's eyes and flew into action. He snapped rapid punches and kicks at every vulnerable point common to humanoids. Several of the blows connected to devastating effect. The irony was that the damage was far more psychological than physical. The Orion stood paralysed by his own fears before being felled by a massive wheel kick with all of Daggit's energy and momentum behind it.

The Orion fell and lay on the floor with a stunned expression frozen upon his features. Daggit moved in for the killing stroke when an ear-shattering gong rang out. Daggit disengaged and turned his focus to the throne. The Orion chieftain sat with a beaming smile of approval.

"You have done well." The chieftain spoke Federation standard with a harsh and guttural accent, "We are pleased with your strength and skill. A contract will be offered if you wish a place in my clan branch of Orion Syndicate."

Daggit hoped he didn't sound as winded as he felt as he replied, "I accept."

The chief let out a bellowing chuckle, "Excellent! _Bura_ Radil will act as your patron. Obey her as you would me."

Daggit bowed his head while maintaining eye contact with the chief. He could see that this pleased the clan lord immensely. He turned to see Radil giving him a relieved smile. The former terrorist looked as though she'd fretted throughout his match. That pleased him, although he knew he shouldn't allow himself to feel that way.

* * *

The hours passed slowly for Hilde Edgars. The transmission she'd received from Dracas had lifted her hopes far more than she knew she safely allow. She couldn't help it. There was a very real chance she could now help for Alicia, as well as justice.

The unknown engineer, Dracas, had to be Starfleet. He was far too intimate with the ship's systems to be otherwise. Subtle vocal clues also alluded to the fact. He spoke standard with an accent she couldn't identify, but that was common enough. There were thousands of variants among humans alone. He also maintained a military undertone in his verbiage.

In his cell, Dracas had managed to access the main computers. Not for the first time, he wished T'Kir or another operational systems engineer was with him. Dracas was intimately familiar starship hardware. The software was outside his normal range of experience.

He was successfully patching codes in, he was just taking longer than a techno-witch like T'Kir would. He'd monitored her activities upon boarding the _Odyssey_ and accessing Ops for the first time. She'd re-routed, reprogrammed, and modified every operational system within minutes. He'd watched the shifting cascade of codes from his master systems terminal in Main Engineering and had been stunned.

She'd inserted ciphers and programs faster than he could identify them. None of the programs had been prepared before she sat at her console. She finished by sending a "friendly" message to his console warning him off from eavesdropping in the future. He'd taken every precaution known to Starfleet and Intelligence to make his observations as discreet as possible and she'd still discovered them.

He could only hope his own efforts here were equal to the simplest of her accomplishments. He'd reprogrammed the vidcomm to deactivate the cell's forcefield. He didn't dare manipulate the system further than that. He'd have to deactivate Edgars and Witt's cells upon his own release.

He'd just replaced the unit back into the wall when the doors to the brig opened. Four men entered. From the leering expressions on their faces, it was painfully obvious that Spencer had authorised another visitation to Witt in order to pressure Edgars. Dracas sat passively as they passed his cell.

A cry of rage and various obscenities flew from Edgars' cell as they passed. Dracas heard a keening wail followed by the sharp _snap_ of a hand slapping flesh. Silence followed, broken only by the arrogant laughter of the men. Edgars continued to berate the men, desperately trying to anger them into abandoning their pursuits with Witt.

Dracas moved to within an inch of the violet field trapping him within the cell. He couldn't see any sentries. He quietly moved to the vidcomm and keyed in the code sequence that would bring the shield down. It winked out of existence and he stepped out.

One of the men stood outside the cells, leaning against a section of panelling located between Witt and Edgars' cells. Dracas deactivated her cell's field as he crept past. His hands lanced out, taking the man's jaw in one hand and the back of his head in the other. He twisted hard and was rewarded with the sharp sound of bones breaking.

The man crumpled to the floor. Dracas lifted his phaser of his belt and moved towards Witt's cell. The field was already down. One man was savagely thrusting his member into Witt as the other two watched gleefully, occasionally offering a comment. One of the observers began to turn towards Dracas.

Dracas fired his phaser, cutting the man down. The other spun only to find a phaser burst striking his chest, throwing him backwards. The third tried to disengage from Witt and go for the phaser clipped to his discarded pants. Dracas caught him by the shoulders and hurled him headfirst into the bulkhead.

He pinned the man by bracing his arm across the back of the man's neck. He placed the phaser's emitter in the crack of the man's anus and held it there. The man shook with fear as Dracas hissed a warning to be quiet and still. Dracas wondered if his prisoner expected the same kind of treatment that he'd meted out.

Edgars' breath came in a ragged gasp as she entered the cell. Witt lay curled up in a ball on her cot. The shreds of her clothes had been cast aside and lay under a corpse. Edgars rushed to Witt's side and tried to comfort her. The only response she received was a blank stare as Witt's eyes gazed at demons only she could see.

"How many crewmen are there aboard?" Dracas asked harshly.

"I don't know." The pirate responded.

Dracas jabbed the phaser further up his rectum, "A little over two hundred! The number changes all the time!"

"Where's the rest of the crew?"" Dracas asked, "A ship of this class normally carries a crew of eight hundred."

"Half of them were killed in the battle over Betazed. The one's that weren't killed in the mutiny are slave labour at our base of operations. That's our destination. We'll be there in twenty minutes"

"How long before someone checks on your activities here?" Dracas asked coldly.

"We were given forty minutes." The answer came in a feeble voice.

Dracas pressed the firing stud. The man lurched suddenly as the phaser blast arced up his colon into his organs. He gurgled as he slumped to the ground. The smell of burnt feces hung in the air.

"Can she travel?" Dracas asked Edgars.

She shook her head, "I don't know. She's practically cataleptic."

Dracas left the cell and went to the replicator. He returned with a simple combination of black tunic, pants and boots. He also had an emergency med kit. While Edgars dressed Witt, he prepared a stimulant.

"At least she co-operative." Dracas commented, noting Witt's reflexive actions of putting arms through sleeves, lifting so pants could be pulled up, and so forth. She was vaguely aware of what occurred around her, she just refused to be drawn out to deal with it. Dracas hoped she could be coaxed out of her mental closet once she was returned to safety.

"What now?" Edgars asked.

Dracas was faintly amused that a starship captain was asking an enlisted engineer for tactical leadership, "Now we get to the Jeffries Tubes and try to get to Auxiliary Control. We can hold out there for days and access subspace communications."

She nodded, "Good plan. I should have thought of it."

He gave her a grim smile, "It's not as though you aren't dealing with other things at the moment."

She gave him an appreciative grin as he gave her a phaser, "Thanks."

"You take care of your officer. I'll take point and lead the way."

* * *

T'Kir's eyes narrowed as she studied the nav sensors. The ship bearing down on them adjusted for every course change she made. _Persistent bastards_, she thought wryly. She could have snapped the scout into more elaborate, and effective, evasive action but she wanted to be boarded.

This close to Andergani territory, the oncoming ship was likely a privateer in their pay. She brushed a stray lock of her ebon hair out of her eyes and swore under breath. Although she was used to long bangs, the creeping hair trying to escape from her scrunchie to rejoin the rest of her tresses draping over neck annoyed the hell out of her. She regretted growing it out in an effort to add to her cover profile.

She spared a glance towards Kort, "What sort of capabilities do our friends have?" He blinked in surprise and gave her a blank look.

Her voice could have frozen plasma, "You have scanned the ship, haven't you?"

He fidgeted as she spared a moment to check her system monitor. _Damn him! The idiot's concentrated on the targeting sensors._ Her head whipped to face him again.

Kort withered under her fierce gaze, "Scan them you moron! I'm running every other system on this damn rustbucket. I don't have time to do that _and _coddle you too."

Kort bristled, but began his scans. T'Kir tried to ignore the throbbing in her skull as she returned her attention to the helm. Alarms sounded across her board. She snarled a curse as she banked the ship in a high _g_ turn.

"What happened?" Kort groaned.

"They locked a disrupter or phaser cannon on us." She snapped, "Y'know, the ones you were supposed to warn me about?"

She looped the scout under and over the armed freighter. The ship fired off two more busts that she was able to evade. The gunner was eager, but not that good against a manoeuvrable foe. She was grateful for that, those blasts looked military grade.

"Locking phasers" Kort announced.

"No!" T'Kir countermanded, "Hail them."

Kort hesitated, which only infuriated her more, "Listen, we came here to infiltrate them, not start a shooting war."

Kort grudgingly obliged and a moment later gruffly announced, "They're transmitting."

A plump blue, Bolian face appeared on her monitor, "Do you wish to surrender?"

T'Kir snorted, "As best as I can tell, I'm running rings around your gunner. You've sacrificed speed to get all that firepower aboard, so I can probably outrun you."

"Then why haven't you?" he sneered.

She couldn't keep the mounting exasperation out of her voice, "Because I want to talk to you! D'you think I'm running empty into Andergani space for my health?"

The Bolian's eyes narrowed, "You certainly look Vulcan, but you do not act very Vulcan. Are you a Rigellian or a Romulan?"

T'Kir sighed, "I'm as Vulcan as the next sentient. I just don't like acting stuffy. Now, are you or aren't you s privateer working for the Oligarchy?"

"Why do you want to know?" the Bolian asked suspiciously.

"Because I want a job, you officious genetic defective!" T'Kir snapped.

"And what can you do, besides be captured by my crew?"

T'Kir bit off a vicious curse and pressed a button on her console. A trojan program invaded the subspace signal and nestled itself into the pirate's mainframe. It passed unnoticed by the ship's security systems. The Bolian stared at her contemptuously while this occurred.

"Well?" he asked.

"_Thy'lla_." She answered. The lights around the Bolian died. Various consoles behind him died. The outer running lights and impulse engines died as well.

"Almost every system is off-line!" a Kynderin woman reported to the Bolian in near panic.

"I can re-activate your systems, _if _you shut up and actually listen to me." T'Kir informed him coldly, "Otherwise you'll just sit here and drift until you freeze or die of oxygen deprivation."

* * *

Macen and Nerrit slowly made their way through the warrens that comprised the devastated section of the Cardassian suburb they'd arrived at. Nerrit had a tricorder out in an effort to detect their quarry or potential assailants. Macen had his phased plasma pistol drawn and was stretching out with his El-Aurian senses, trying to detect disturbances in the natural area.

What he felt was the agonised disruption of the area resulting from the Dominion's bombardment. Subspace itself had been damaged. It wreaked havoc with his non-physical senses, rendering them impotent. He relied upon intuition and experience instead.

He caught he flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and reacted instantly. He dove for the ground in a sliding motion, kicking Nerrit's legs out form underneath her as he dropped. She went down with a startled yelp as phaser blasts intersected where they had been seconds before. Macen continued his motion and launched himself into a tuck and roll behind a pile of debris. The attack followed him, granting Nerrit the opportunity to get behind cover and begin returning fire.

"Why've you been asking about us?" an angry voice called out.

"I heard you were ex-Maquis." Macen called back, listening for subtle noises to indicate his opponents repositioning while their leader tried to distract him.

"What of it?" the voice replied, "What difference does it make to you who we are? What do you want with us?"

"My name's Macen." He answered, "I've been sent by Starfleet. I can arrange repatriation and freedom from prosecution in exchange for information."

"_Brin_ Macen?" the voice asked.

"That's my name." Macen replied. He turned his head slightly as he heard shifting rubble to his left. His flanker would be in position in a few moments.

"I've heard of you." The voice admitted, "I even met you a few years back. What kind of information?"

"Answers regarding a former Starfleet officer and three starships that work for the Andergani." Macen replied as he quietly shifted position to get a shot at his would be assailant.

"Why would Starfleet work for them?" the voice scoffed, "You're a bad liar."

"They care because that bastard attacked me and destroyed my ship." Macen replied angrily. The flanker moved into position, which brought part of him out into the open. Macen snapped off a shot. He heard a groan as the other man crumpled.

"That wasn't hospitable." The voice accused.

"Neither is an ambush." Macen retorted.

"No." the voice admitted, "But it is effective."

Phaser bursts erupted from several directions at once. He and Nerrit laboriously returned fire. The renegade Maquis were short on fire discipline and often exposed themselves needlessly. That trait cost them dearly and soon the odds were equalised.

Macen was trying to determine where the last two had gone to when he spotted one emerging from a burnt out home near Nerrit's position. He tried to shout a warning, but it was too late. The phaser blast caught her in the rib cage. Macen snapped off two rapid shots.

He spun and fired behind him, catching his assassin in the chest. Macen stood and ran to Nerrit's side. He checked her vitals with the tricorder. She was dead.

The muscles in his cheek twitched as his jaw clenched. He heard her killer groan. One of Macen's shots had hit him in the leg. Macen rose and walked over to the man.

He stopped an arm's length away and levelled his pistol at the wounded man. He snapped off two bursts into the man's chest. He turned without a word and returned to Nerrit's body. He stared at her silently for a moment before a noise caused him to snap up, bringing his weapon to bear.

A middle aged Cardassian held up his hands while wearing an enigmatic smile, "No need to fear. As you can see, I'm unarmed."

"What are you doing here?" Macen asked, his voice hard.

"I heard the commotion and decided to investigate." The Cardassian replied, "I must say, I was impressed with how you dispatched of them."

Macen shook his head, "It was stupid. I needed information only they could provide."

The Cardassian nodded, "Yes, I managed to overhear part of that." He brightened, "Never fear, there may be hope yet."

Macen gave him a sceptical look, "Are you going to interrogate a dead man?"

The Cardassian's eyes widened in delighted surprise, "Exactly! Please, help me move the most recently expired man to a building nearby."

Macen still felt sceptical but he helped the Cardassian carry the dead man to a nearby house. It was gutted, but the basement was intact. Macen paused to cast a worried glance back towards where Nerrit lay. The Cardassian saw this and clucked his tongue in a reassuring way.

"You're friend will be safe, I assure you."

Macen followed as he was led into an underground bunker. It was filled with various electronic devices of unknown purpose. The Cardassian bustled about with purpose. He pointed at a table.

"You may place our departed friend there."

Macen laid the man down. The Cardassian placed a headset filled with microelectronics atop the head and moved off to a console. He activated the system and waited as several displays shifted though various read outs. A moment later, a datarod was ejected.

The Cardassian handed it to Macen, "This should be accessible to any Federation computer. It may require a medical filtering program to convert the chemical composition readings into useful imagery."

Macen gave him a thin smile. By mapping the chemical layout of the memory centres of the brain, it was theoretically possible to reconstruct memory fragments. The images would be random and centred in the short-term memory areas. If Macen's comments about the Andergani had sparked any recollections in the man's mind, they might be recorded on this rod.

"Why are you doing this?" Macen asked.

"I have no love for the Andergani. They have plagued my people for decades." He replied nonchalantly.

"There's another reason." Macen stated.

The Cardassian's eyes twinkled with delight, "As with our dispatched friends, I've heard the name Brin Macen as well."

Macen's eyebrow rose, "And that makes you want to help me?"

"Consider it a professional courtesy in an age where such things are fading." The Cardassian offered as an explanation. He gave Macen a broad, but faintly insincere smile, "If you would like, I can deal with returning your comrade's body to Bajor while you pursue your inquiry into these pirates." He held up a hand to deflect Macen's protestations, "It would be an honour. I came out here to investigate rumours of smugglers despoiling our graves and looting our heritage. I discovered these to be true just as you resolved a portion of the problem for me. Returning the young lady to her family would be the least I could do."

Macen nodded, more out of defeat than agreement, "Her name is Nerrit Wen."

"Very well then," the Cardassian continued on amiably, "I do believe you should be going now. Several members of the Civil Patrol will be arriving shortly, as well as two distraught members of the Elite Guards."

"They're assigned to protecting high ranking officials." Macen commented.

The Cardassian chuckled, "So they are. They are also frightfully unimaginative and far too easy to elude."

"If it isn't too much trouble, can I ask your name?" Macen felt he already knew what the answer would be.

"Yes, of course." His benefactor radiated goodwill and cultivated charm, "My name is Elim Garak. You may of course simply call me Garak."

"Garak as in the unofficial leader of the Cardassian rebuilding effort?" " Macen clarified.

Garak shook his head, "As in plain, simple Garak."

"Right." Macen agreed dubiously as he tapped his comm badge and asked the runabout's computers to transport him back aboard.


	15. Chapter 15

190

Uprising

T'Kir monitored her instruments as the scout slipped out of warp. The pirates had surrendered to T'Kir's demands and had agreed to take her and Kort to their base of operations. Part of their urgency in attempting to capture her stemmed from the fact that they lay thirty minutes from entering the system housing the base. Intelligence had no records of any Andergani outposts this close to Federation territory. Those surveys had not been updated in over four years, which meant the base could have been built at any time in that period without being noticed.

The pirates' only demand was that they beam over a member of their crew to act as a "liaison". She'd accepted the watchdog for co-operation's sake. She'd been dismayed to learn that the spy was a former Maquis.

Intellectually, she'd accepted the fact that former Maquis were in league with these and other pirates. Emotionally, it was another hammer blow in a succession of such blows over the last several days. She longed for Macen's presence. His overall reaction to this development would be far more restrained than hers.

_Actually, it'd just be nice to have him period._ She admitted ruefully, _But nooo, he had to run off with that Bajoran tart._

She regretted the thoughts even as they flickered through her mind. Mental pressures were beginning to bear down on her and her thoughts were increasingly erratic. Macen had demonstrated a lot of faith by placing her in charge of this mission, and she refused fail him. That singular determination was what was holding her together as things began to get "slippery" again.

She was relived when the renegade excused himself to go inspect the engines. She felt as though a veritable mental loudspeaker had been removed from the tight confines of the bridge. She released a long sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. Irritatingly enough, she could now feel waves of concern broadcasting from Kort.

"I'm fine." She growled.

She could hear his surprised thoughts, and the curses that followed, "No, I'm not eavesdropping on your mind... such as it is. You're just predictable."

Kort muttered an intelligible oath and left. She was just as glad she hadn't heard what he'd said. What he'd thought brought a slight emerald flush to her cheeks as it was. She took a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate on her instruments and what little she'd discovered so far.

At least one Maquis, one Joren Ruthers to be precise, had thrown in with the pirates. That wasn't a surprise, but what Ruthers had revealed upon beaming over had been. She'd known that Macen and his crew, herself included, had developed a reputation within the Maquis but she'd never known _how _great of one until now. The fact that they had been hated and feared by the Cardassian's Obsidian Order had granted them near mythical stature in the minds of the freedom fighters.

She'd been fully prepared to loathe Ruthers for his association with the butchers that had destroyed her ship. She hadn't been prepared for the adulation he projected whenever being around her. The most annoying part is that they'd never physically met before, not even during the war. She was flattered by it, but it also made it damnably hard to hate him, it was too much like hitting a young, eager _sehlat_ with a padd.

She let out another forlorn sigh. Few non-telepaths ever understood her plight. When her mental barriers were weakened, she lost herself amongst the teeming voices. She was alone and outnumbered within her own mind. The abnormal behaviours that resulted were desperate attempts to stand above the miasma of activity that threatened to drown her.

She'd "overheard" theories regarding the Borg during her stay at the Andes Institute. The therapists there guessed that once assimilated, the new drones were bombarded with the whole of the collective mind, until they snapped under the pressure. At that point a single voice rose above the rest, presumably the Queen, and ended the clamour. The broken psyche would capitulate and be remoulded into whatever guise the Borg saw fit to sculpt.

She could make out her reflection on an inactive display on the console next to her. Her brilliant blue eyes, a rarity amongst Vulcans, burned with her burning desire to prevent this fate from occurring. Her full lips turned up in a grim smile as she reached a decision. She locked her board on to computer control and stepped into the head. When she returned to her post, she'd cut the back of her hair off with a protoplaser.

The uneven lengths were a tangible link to the familiar. Her bangs fell freely into her eyes. This too was a handhold to cling too. She ruffled her hands through her hair, putting it in total disarray.

She re-examined her lean features and drew a satisfied smile from herself. Her behaviour would be more easily dismissed if she presented a wilder image from the start. It would also of further towards ingratiating herself with the outcasts that comprised the ranks of the pirates. She began humming a tune to herself, satisfied with her efforts and intentionally ignoring the fact that the transformation had been far easier than putting on that damned Starfleet uniform.

* * *

Dracas smiled fiercely as he punched in the final code sequence into the computers at Auxiliary Control. Witt had made it with them, if just barely. She leaned limply against a bulkhead while Edgars stood guard, watching the doorway. Dracas shook his head at that. He'd placed magnetic locks on the door and forcefields up and down the corridors leading to it.

"That should do it." He announced.

Edgars gave him a puzzled glance, so he explained, "The sensors indicate that we're over a planet. If what the guard told us is true, then its these bastards' main base of operation. It also a slave labour camp."

He pointed at the console, "I've rigged a shuttle to try an automated launch in ten minutes. I've also ordered the transporter to commence several beam outs at the same time."

"Won't they detect them?" Edgars asked.

Dracas gave her a feral smile, "We're going to beam down in three minutes. The transporter logs for that transport will be transposed over the multiple jumps and this one will be deleted. I've blinded the sensors for the next five minutes, so they shouldn't notice we're gone until it's too late."

Edgars shook her head, "I have to hand it to you, Chief. I would never thought of anything like this."

He blushed, "You were trained as a scientist. My cultural background leans towards revolution and sabotage."

She nodded, "I've heard about the Troglyte tunnels."

"They're better now than a hundred years ago, but the situation could still be improved upon." Dracas admitted.

"So what happens when we get to the surface?"

"If there are slaves down there," he answered, "then I'm betting they're ready to revolt."

She shook her head, but smirked, "Prisoner to leader of an uprising and all in one day? You do think big."

He ignored her teasing tones, "Let's grab Commander Witt and get ready for the transport."

* * *

Radil led Daggit to a room that looked like it had been converted into a simple infirmary. It didn't have much in the way of surgical equipment, but was adequately stocked for triage duties. Daggit didn't suppose that the Syndicate expected many major injuries in their own HQ. _Especially if all the matches are to the death,_ he mused grimly.

He flinched as Radil began applying a cellular regenerator to the bruises and abrasions on his face. "Stop that!" she chided, "Don't be a baby. If you keep squirming you'll end up scarred."

"So?" he retorted, "At least it wouldn't be as irritating as the damn itching that things causing."

"You have a nice face." She said, with an unexpected tenderness in her voice, "It'd be a shame to ruin it."

He stared at her, gaping.

"You don't get many compliments, do you?" she laughed.

"Not like that." He admitted ruefully, "Most people usually comment on my reflexes, memory, or how well I can fight."

A heavy sigh escaped her, "You'll hear that here too. It's just nice to remember from time to time that we're organic, not some blasted killing machines."

"So why are you here?" he asked.

It was her turn to stare, "You haven't been around mercs or criminals for any length of time have you?"

"Nope." He confessed, "I just left Starfleet. After the war ended, they were just going to lock me away at some stupid Security post somewhere and forget about me. This seemed like a way to try and keep my sanity."

"Figures." She snorted, "That's pretty much all anybody wants to do with former soldiers." She stepped back, hands on her hips, "Okay, the rules are simple. You never ask anyone where they're from or why they're here."

"Gotcha." He replied, then with a mischievous smirk, "So, why are you here?"

She laughed even as she shook her head, "I knew you were trouble."

"At least I'm trouble with a nice face." He promptly reminded her.

Her smile was as bright as it was rewarding, "That you are. I guess that'll make up for some of your crap."

"So how 'bout it?"

She sat on the bench next to him with a resigned air, "Alright, but it's a long story."

"D'you think I'd ask if I wasn't interested?"

Her eyes bore into his, "No. Somehow I don't think you would."

* * *

The _Javelin_ dropped out of warp and began its final approach to Starbase 412. Macen let the computers fly the ship while he reviewed the data he'd been given by Garak. It lacked helpful details, but did contain a set of co-ordinates that the charts indicated were on the border between Andergani and Cardassian space. They were also well within easy warp travel from Betazed. Macen's instincts led him to believe that this was Spencer's base of operations.

He'd stretched his empathic senses as far as they could reach. He didn't have a strong connection to T'Kir, but he was vaguely certain that she was in that area as well. He'd sensed several distortions in the time-space continuum as well as a sense of mourning from his brethren. Somewhere in the universe, an El-Aurian had died, creating a ripple felt by all.

All El-Aurians could sense the underlying weave of the universe. Patterns and movement interwove into larger mosaics. The ability varied amongst his people, but all had this perception built into the very being. Those exposed to the Nexus more so than the rest. He supposed that was why his people seemed so ethereal to other species, they literally dwelt in two worlds.

Ages past, many of his ancestors had done far more than sense the ebb and flow of the universe, they had used that talent to manipulate events around them. This had created devastating wars between competing ideologies of the "correct" goals. In the end, they died at each other's hand and the El-Aurians vowed never to interfere in the patterns of the universe again. They would watch, listen and study the universe and its varied inhabitants, but they would never again interfere in its unfolding tapestry of events

That philosophy had brought about the destruction of his world and her colonies. Although they had sensed the approaching Borg, they did nothing to interfere. That decision had soured Macen to the cornerstone tenet of his people. Macen's rejection of the code of non-interference brought about his own rejection from his people.

While not skilled enough to completely perceive the flows of probability, Macen could and did use his perceptions to place himself in areas where he could influence outcomes. On occasion, he had tried to influence the potentialities he saw around him through sheer force of will. Whether or not he enjoyed any success was debatable, but he had physically intervened as well, assuring an altered outcome. These actions, and the mentality behind them, branded him as great a threat to many El-Aurians as his distant kin, Tolian Soran.

Once again, Macen could sense a nexus of probability surrounding this situation. He could also sense his race's pleas not to interfere. He ignored these with a brusque mental shove and continued his meditations. He could see how potentialities twisted around the world he sought and knew he would go there and choose one path for this place. He sensed an anguished groan as his decision was felt by his people and they retreated back to observation alone, lest they violate the codes and impose unwarranted change on the situation.

Macen found the whole affair fairly hypocritical in light of Guinan's involvement with Captain Picard. She may have rarely taken a physical role in events, but her counsel and relaying of information changed events to a greater degree than her personal actions ever could have. Even the echo of herself left in the Nexus led Picard to the realisation that he could alter the very events that led both him there _and _recruit James T. Kirk at the same time. He'd been repetitively told that such actions were different by an important shade, they provided others without awareness to make more informed judgements.

_It's still changing things,_ Macen's mind growled; _alleviating ignorance induces the greatest changes of all._

He sighed as the runabout came to a halt and the docking clamps took hold. Moments later, the bay had been re-pressurised and it was safe to open the ship's hatch. He was mildly surprised to find no one waiting for him. He knew Grace was the only team member left at the Starbase, but he was hoping she'd have come down to give him an update on her investigation while they walked back to the office space she'd been allocated. He also wanted to know if Daggit or T'Kir had checked in yet.

He began to feel a sense of foreboding as he neared the office. The corridors were too deserted and his presence too unnoticed for this to a natural occurrence. He tried to think of whom would want him in a position of being alone and unaided, and it was far too long to be of any value. _I've got entire stellar nations that want me dead._ He mused wryly.

He drew his pistol out of its holster and angled himself up alongside the entrance to the office area. He waved his hand in front of the door, tripping its motion sensors. It opened with the detestable _swoosh_ that seemed to plague Federation designs. As it opened, Macen dove swiftly into the room.

He continued the movement into a roll that landed him behind a desk. He received no response even though the lights were on. Either the room was deserted, or his ambushers had incredible control over their reflexes. Either possibility wasn't a promising one.

He slowly rose, pistol at the ready. The room was deserted. The only source of activity was a flashing message on the data terminal he had sought shelter behind. His blood chilled as he read it.

It was message addressed to him. It informed him, without hesitation or preamble, that the writer had Ensign Grace in their custody. Explicit instructions followed, informing him of where to go in order to facilitate her safe return. It made no mention of keeping Security uninvolved, and didn't need to.

Both the tone and efficiency with which Grace's abduction had been accomplished alluded to the identities of her kidnappers. Section 31 was one of the few forces that could circumvent every Starfleet Security precaution. They had two long-standing grudges against Macen, and apparently saw now as their opportunity to exact a fee for his prior interference in their operations. For all he knew, Spencer's piracy was condoned by the shadowy watchgroup.

Exhaling a deep sigh, he left the room and proceeded down the corridor in obedience to the proscribed course. The only logical reason for the convoluted path he'd been instructed to take was that the kidnappers could tap the security monitors and watch his approach. That would make it harder for him to prepare any surprises for their meeting with him. Macen hated giving away any opportunity for an advantage, but he didn't have time to ponder alternatives.

His path led him to a deserted module added to the base's superstructure during the war. It was a cargo hold large enough to contain modular replacements for starships. It was also vast enough to hide a small force. Containers remained stacked throughout the bay, creating a labyrinth.

Macen cautiously proceeded through the maze. He could feel the presence of other beings nearby, but couldn't determine how many. His opponents had brought along a subspace distortion generator that clouded his perceptions. Whoever these people were, they were well informed.

He cleared the last turn and an open area surrounded by walls of cargo containers lay before him. Grace sat bound in a chair in the centre of the area. Two humans, male and female, stood to either side of her. Both were armed, but their sidearms remained on their belts. Macen had no doubts as to their proficiency with such weapons.

They both dressed entirely in black. The male was the shorter of the two, and wore a gregarious smile. The woman, almost Macen's height, wore an imperious masque of superiority. Any doubts Macen had as to whether or not they belonged to Section 31 ended upon seeing her expression.

Macen returned his pistol to its holster. This brought a smile to the man's face. The woman's smug expression remained the same. Grace's eyes looked at him pleadingly and her jaw worked soundlessly as a result of an inhibitor freezing her vocal chords, muffling her voice.

"Come in Captain." The man said, "You are undoubtedly here to retrieve young Ensign Grace here."

Macen nodded, "And you're undoubtedly here to settle a few issues."

The man chuckled, "Undoubtedly, but not with you. At least, not at this time."

Macen's expression remained carefully neutral, "Then with whom?"

"Why with our dear Ensign, of course." The man answered with a broad sweep of his arms, "Surely you've realised that she's been one of our agents all along."

Macen glanced towards Grace. The pained expression in her eyes was answer to whether the statement was true or not. After their experiences with Ensign D'art and their Romulan infiltrator, Macen had screened the rest of his crew. Grace had slipped past his detection.

That didn't explain why the two Section 31 agents were here then. If she'd successfully infiltrated his team, then she shouldn't be punished like this. The only alternatives were that this was a ruse to shatter his trust in his team or that she was a Section 31 operative and she'd defected. It could be an elaborate hoax to convince him of either of those possibilities, but the sense of remorse he felt rippling off of Grace in boundless waves contradicted that possibility.

"There's more to it than that." Macen replied, "Otherwise you'd have already taken off with her. There's more."

"There's always more." The man replied, "The question is whether or not you're willing to co-operate."


	16. Chapter 16

203

Uprising

Macen gave the Section 31 agent a pained look, "What is it you want?"

"You have an agent placed within the Orion Syndicate." It wasn't a question, although it was the first time the female agent had contributed anything significant besides a sneer.

"If I do, what of it?" Macen baited.

"He must abort his investigation." She snapped.

Her partner intervened, "Really Captain, his investigation could jeopardise a sting operation we began some months ago. You provide authenticated orders he'll acknowledge and we'll extract him and return him here."

"What happens if he doesn't comply?"

The man's smile never wavered, "Then he'll be neutralised and Starfleet will lose a valuable man."

Macen nodded towards Grace, "What about her?"

"Her fate is yours to decide." The man replied with a shrug, "From our perspective, she's compromised. We cannot afford to trust her. Whether or not you can is your decision."

Macen nodded in a distracted manner, "Where do you want the orders sent?"

"Place them in Starfleet's database." The unnamed agent informed him, "We'll make certain they reach their intended party."

"Give me an hour." Macen said in resignation.

"Very well." The man said chipperly, "Good luck with apprehending Lt. Commander Spencer."

The two agents dissolved in a luminescent fire. Macen sighed and moved over to where Grace sat bound in the chair. He removed the inhibitor immobilising her jaw first. He shushed her as she started to try and explain. She fell into a sullen silence as he released the shackles on her wrists and ankles.

He helped her to her feet, "Nothing damaged?"

She shook her head in the negative, "All right, why don't you explain?"

She lifted her head, but didn't quite meet his eyes, "I was recruited to observe you in case Ensign D'art failed. They would send me instructions if I was forced to go active. However, after we returned to Earth, I never reported in. I guess they came looking for me."

She met his gaze, "I'm sorry, sir. I never meant to betray your trust. If you want me off the team, I understand completely."

Macen smirked, "Want you off the team? Hell no. You had both T'Kir and I fooled. Anyone that can befriend a telepath and hide something like this from them, I want on my side."

She gave him a relieved sigh as an exhausted giggle escaped her, "Really?"

"Of course. You didn't think I was going to do all those record checks myself did you?"

"Of course not." She said happily, "Let's get to it."

* * *

The _Idiot's Delight_ slid into orbit over a planet that wasn't even on her nav charts. Three Federation starships and a half dozen other craft were already there. T'Kir shivered in silent rage upon recognising the ships that had destroyed the _Odyssey_. She fought an almost unresistable urge to fly her ship down their throats.

"They'll be sending landing co-ordinates." Ruthers spoke up, granting T'Kir a distraction from her destructive impulses, "Let me put in the encryption cipher."

She flashed him a smirk over her shoulder, "You won't need to."

"These are military grade ciphers." Ruthers protested, "You won't be able to..."

His voice drifted off as the comm crackled to life and a bored voice gave landing instructions. Ruthers shook his head and whistled softly.

"I'm beginning to believe some of those stories about Macen and his crew."

"Should have believed them before." T'Kir snorted.

One advantage the courier had over the _Odyssey_ was the ability to navigate in atmospheric conditions. The typically Starfleet saucer and nacelle configuration of the scoutship had prevented it from being able to successfully engage in atmospheric ops. The _Delight's_ stubby wings granted her much greater stability than even a runabout or shuttle would have. It'd been a while since she'd last flown such craft in these conditions, but her reflexes returned without hesitation.

_Or maybe just a little hesitation_, she thought wryly as the ship bucked from unexpected turbulence.

The planet beneath them was decidedly unremarkable. It was largely comprised of ocean, with large islands smattered throughout. Only one of them was large enough to be considered a continent. Most of the islands were volcanically active.

The waters were brown and muddy. She had little doubt the volcanism spewed various materials into the oceans on a regular basis. It was little wonder the Andergani had been willing to trade this world away. She wondered what was on it that made it appealing to Spencer.

The co-ordinates centred on what appeared to be the only city on the continent. The continent itself was marked by high mountain ranges with deep, lush valleys below. She supposed that made sense. The soils were probably laced with nutrients galore.

The city was built on a ridge overlooking one such valley. It was a wide, flat design. Multi-story building wouldn't be favoured on a tectonically active world. It looked shoddy and unfinished. It had a strip-mining quality about it, a totally disposable operation designed to be discarded when the source of wealth was depleted.

A landing area with dozens of shuttle and in-system impulse craft lay next to the urban sprawl. She received another message, telling her reach beacon frequency to lock onto for final guidance. After locating the beacon's signal, she began her final descent. Minutes later, the courier was on the ground.

Ruthers leaned forward as if to clap her on the back. An upraised eyebrow that brought her Vulcan origins home stopped him. She was the strangest Vulcan he'd ever met, but she was _still _a Vulcan. That included greater than human strength that could easily break his bones.

The comm came to life again. They were instructed to keep the vessel sealed for another ten standard minutes before opening the hatches. T'Kir and Kort exchanged a sour look, then both glared at Ruthers impatiently. He shrugged in helpless ignorance.

T'Kir shut down the ship's main systems and rose from her chair, "At least it'll give me a chance to change clothes. Sensors indicated an average temperature of 79 centigrade and high humidity. You should love it here Kort."

The Klingon flashed an intimidating smile to their guest as T'Kir exited the cockpit. Klingons were jungle creatures. The lush forests in the valley looked inviting to him. He would love nothing more than to test his unarmed hunting skills against whatever predators this world could provide.

He and Ruthers exited the cockpit as well and made their way to the common lounge. They sat in silence waiting for both the deadline to expire and the ship's captain to return. T'Kir entered seconds before the deadline's conclusion. Ruthers' shock amused Kort.

T'Kir had doffed the jacket and suede pants for glossy black leather pants and a loose hooded grey cloak. The pants had buckles on other side of her hips. A Cardassian-style phaser hung loosely from her belt. As much as T'Kir loathed Cardassians, she had to admit they built rugged and dependable weapons.

Her boots matched her pants. They rose to just below her knees and had clasps running down their length. Her grey cloak was V-necked, with leather cords to draw the opening tighter. It was made of a light woven fabric of unknown origin. Ruthers wondered briefly what she wore under the cloak until he received a sharp reproofing glance from her.

She hit the release for the main hatch and it lowered itself to the ground. Pungent odours wafted in from outside. The air was thick with scents from the rainforests below. T'Kir's hand hovered over her phaser as she stepped outside.

"Here goes everything." Kort heard her mutter as she descended down the ramp.

He and Ruthers waited a moment then her voice called back, "Well?"

Kort roughly shoved the pirate through the hatchway. Ruthers stumbled down the ramp, trying not to fall. Kort strode down it behind him. He walked with a warrior's arrogance.

Kort took a deep breath, savouring the smell of the place. His hunter's instincts sampling the richness of the air, the quality of the game. This world was the fulfilment of his darkest fantasies. He also knew better than to unleash the careful bonds he placed around himself. He'd already been virtually banished from the Empire for indulging his desires in Gowron's private estates.

T'Kir's nose wrinkled. It was a response brought on by the thoughts permeating this place than any physical stimuli. She sensed restless hatred, longing, despair, and pain. Most of the inhabitants here were slaves, and they loathed their so-called masters. It was a psychic tidal wave she couldn't allow herself to be drowned in.

She could feel Kort's primal urges warring with his carefully sculpted restraints and wanted to scream. She knew it would be a futile gesture but it would help unleash some of her own building volatility. The last time she had confronted this psychic barrage, it had built in intensity over the years as her abilities grew. Now her senses were at their peak and the onslaught began as soon as the herbs faded.

_But at least I have better mental defences now._ She solaced herself, _I hope!_

Several armed troops arrived. They brandished Federation phaser rifles although their clothing and species originated from across the Alpha Quadrant. It was an irony too delicious for T'Kir to ignore. _The Federation, paragon of virtue and laws, and arms dealer to the entire stinking Quadrant._

"Follow us." A Yrissian said without preamble.

T'Kir shrugged and motioned for Kort to follow along as well.

The Yrissian led them through the warrens of the "city". It would have been better described as an encampment. T'Kir tried to shut out the mental imagery she received as they strode through the twisting alleyways and paths. Several of the pirate group's ships had just arrived and the crews were seeking "entertainment" from their slaves. What her telepathy missed, her sharp hearing delivered.

By the time she was brought before several humans standing in a circle, she was ready to kill every pirate in sight. The humans split up and Herbert Spencer turned and appraised her with a bemused smile. She could see the underlying tension in his face and hoped that whatever was causing it would redouble its efforts.

"So you are the Vulcan I've heard so much about over the last few hours?" he said.

It took every ounce of her remaining control not to smash his face as her mind reeled over memories of his face appearing on the _Odyssey's _main viewscreen shortly before the noble ship's destruction.

"Maybe." She countered, "Then again, you're people could be discussing Ambassador Spock f'r all I know."

He chuckled softly and she could feel apprehension building within him, "I know that a handful of Vulcans joined the Maquis. You are reported to be among their number. Is this true?"

"I joined them." She said warily, "But they're dead. What's it matter now?"

"Well said." Spencer replied, "But I need to know why you're here?"

"I was released from imprisonment on Earth." She said truthfully, "I needed work and heard that the Andergani were always looking for people with my... talents."

"I heard about some of those." Spencer said appreciatively, "My people are still trying to figure out what you did to their systems."

"Good luck." She snorted.

"You are a rare treasure m'dear." Spencer purred. T'Kir kept herself from retching as he spoke, "You may indeed find a place amongst us, but I need proof of your resolve."

Spencer snapped his fingers and two men dragged a third into the courtyard where the impromptu interview was occurring. The prisoner was bleeding and had obviously undergone torture. T'Kir briefly wondered if she were going to asked to perform a mindmeld. She wasn't certain what her answer would be to such a request.

"This man failed in his duties and has created a problem for me." Spencer informed her, "It is being solved, but he must still be punished."

"And?" she asked in a bored manner.

He held out a phaser, "I want you to kill him for me."

Without hesitation she snatched the phaser from his hand and shot the prisoner in the chest before the other two could release him. She tossed the phaser back to Spencer, "Anything else?"

He laughed, "No. Ruthers will see to it that you get groundside quarters and a meal."

"Thanks." She said simply as she turned to follow Ruthers and deal with Kort's outraged sensibilities. She could feel rage emanating out of him but didn't want to deal with it until they had the freedom of speaking privately and without fear of eavesdropping. He could just stew in his juices until then. She hoped she'd be able to deal with it without ripping his dense skull off.

* * *

Dracas' eyes stared at the ground. Several drunken pirates staggered by without noticing him. The engineer wore a Vulcan traveller's robe with its hood drawn up over his head. He'd discovered that Vulcan's were one of the few races allowed to travel freely about the slave camp in exchange for a promise of not attempting to escape.

He knocked gently at the door of the improvised Healer's temple. Two if the prisoners, Serik and T'Lis, were healers captured en route to a conference on the neutral world of Bexdrij near the Andergani border.

They'd been allowed to establish a primitive facility to meet some of the "colonist's" health needs. Dracas, Edgars, and Witte had been brought to the healers shortly after they materialised on the planet's surface. Dracas had counted on the prisoner's animosity towards their captors to provide a shield for them. Thus far, he'd been proven correct.

"I brought the herbs you requested." He informed T'Lis.

She nodded. She was a young woman by Vulcan standards. Less than a century old if Dracas was any judge. She epitomised the Vulcan ideal of restrained passion and the pursuit of purest logic.

"Excellent." Serik replied as he entered. He sat down across from Edgars. She watched him nervously. He had just finished his examination of Witte and she could barely contain her anxiety as she awaited his verdict of her condition.

"Your comrade has suffered extreme physical and emotional distress." He said in a voice that transmitted concern while sounding dispassionate. It was a remarkable ability.

"The physical wounds were easy enough to treat. They shall mend on their own given time." Serik continued, gauging Edgars' impatience, "The emotional wounds are another matter. Although we have little experience in dealing with such matters," _That was true enough, from a certain perspective, _"I have touched her mind on order to assist her in organising her thoughts and re-establishing a sense of peace."

"Is she conscience?" Edgars asked, unable to contained herself any more.

Serik nodded, "She once again recognises her physical senses. There is more that I must tell you."

Edgars blinked as the Vulcan continued, "Your comrade has conceived. She carries at least one other life within her. She is aware of this fact, but I am uncertain as to how this will affect her future emotional stability."

Hilde Edgars stared at the elderly Vulcan in abused disbelief. Her jaw hung slack and her breath came in ragged gasps. _How could this happen? How could they escape just to discover that Alicia carried one of those bastard's children?_

She wanted to explode. She wanted to demand that the Vulcan abort the child. She knew what his reply would be. Vulcan healers were sworn never to take a life, even an unborn child's. She'd always respected that conviction, in contrast to humanity's cheaper regard for life, until now.

She forced her outrage to subside. She had to be strong for a while longer. She couldn't allow this to overwhelm her. If she let this news destroy her, how could she help Alicia through it? She straightened her shoulders and vowed to find the monster that had done this to her XO.

"We must now find a way to remove you from the city." T'Lis said, "They have begun searches and will swiftly find you if we do not find you proper shelter."

"Where can we go?" Dracas asked.

T'Lis eyes were hooded for a moment while she calculated the risks of answering, "There is a place."

Serik stood and straightened his robes, "I shall depart now. It is better that these old ears now hear what is about to be said." He stepped out of the dwelling and out into the night air.

"There is a group of those which wish to stop the pirates and liberate the prisoners here." T'Lis informed the Starfleet officers.

"And they have a base outside the city?" Dracas asked.

"Precisely." T'Lis with a spark that resembled eagerness in her eyes. "I will lead you there tonight now that your comrade is fit to travel."

"Sounds like a plan." Dracas agreed, "Who knows? We may even be able to help out with this liberation."

T'Lis' eyes shone with hope even as Edgars' smouldered with hate.

* * *

Alone on board the _Idiot's Delight_, Kort stared at T'Kir apprehensively as she sipped at a mug of coffee. Kort shared the typical Vulcan's revulsion at the habit. He supposed she'd acquired it after her years of contact with the humans of the Maquis. He supposed that Macen had been corrupted in similar fashion.

He'd had remained silent as the traversed the "streets" of the unnamed city the pirates ruled. He'd sullenly clung to his thoughts as they'd eaten at an inn Ruthers led them to. He'd even hidden his scorn at discovering a Ferengi ran the eatery. It was typical that a Ferengi would discover a way to profit on a world populated by slaves.

T'Kir had spent most of the afternoon ordering supplies and arranging briefings with the pirate's convoluted chains of command, all revolving around Spencer. Kort's simmering anger had added to his disguise. No one had dared ask him a question all afternoon long. T'Kir had begged off a banquet being held in Spencer's honour and had returned to the ship.

She'd quickly scanned the ship for eavesdropping devices before making her cup of that cursed beverage and giving him a level gaze and saying, "Say it."

"How could you!" he almost explode, "That man was an unarmed prisoner! You should have at least given him the opportunity to defend himself. For all we know, he may have been one of the slaves we are here to liberate."

"He wasn't." she said flatly, taking another sip of her coffee, "And before you work yourself up any more, you might as well know that he isn't even dead."

"What? How can you say that?

"The phaser was set for stun." She said with a heavy sigh, setting her mug down on the table she sat behind.

"How would you know?" Kort demanded, "You never even checked the settings."

"I didn't have to!" she snapped, "It was a test. Spencer wanted to see if I'd hesitate. As far as the prisoner goes, he was one of Spencer's men that let Dracas and two female Starfleet prisoners escape because he was too busy watching his fellows rape one of the women to watch the cells. His death would have been no great loss trust me."

Kort was surprised at the savage vehemence in her voice, "How can you know...?"

Her face twisted up with impatient scorn, "I'm a telepath remember?"

Kort realised his suspicions from before were being confirmed, "When is the last time you took your herbal treatment?" The same treatment Macen had discovered to lessen her abilities to the point she could endure them.

"Since before the _Odyssey _got blown up." She answered with a defensive edge.

"I suppose I could synthesise something similar." Kort muttered.

"Don't you get it?" her fist slammed down so hard it knocked her mug over, "My abilities just saved our asses! If I'd hesitated at all, you'd be finding out of you've got enough honour to get into _Stovalkohr_ right now. We won't be able to find out what we're here to discover without my telepathy at its full strength."

"Maybe, but..."

"I can handle it." She said with flat finality. She rose and brushed past him.

_I hope so little one._ Kort thought glumly, _I doubt our commander would ever forgive me if I allowed you to die here._

"I heard that!" she warned from across the ship.

_Oh Kahless!_ Kort thought miserably, _Here we go again._


	17. Chapter 17

213

Uprising

Daggit watched Radil carefully. They'd been dispatched to collect "insurance" fees from some local farmers. Daggit found the whole affair disgusting. Radil must have had similar compunctions judging by her careful, precise manner.

He'd heard about other Syndicate enforcers that conducted these shakedowns with nearly unrestrained violence. Daggit knew they were the minority. Such practices prejudiced locals against continued co-operation with the Syndicate. He also had to admit the Syndicate did actually provide protective services for the insured merchandise, even if the Syndicate provided half the subsequent threat of theft itself. At least they drove their competitors off as well.

Radil never threatened, never cajoled. She stated the terms of the arrangement plainly and professionally. She never wavered and never displayed the slightest sign of dishonesty. She appeared what she truly was, a soldier committed to her duties.

The fact she loathed her current duties became evident as they sat in the relatively private confines of their groundcar, "Dammit it all to the pah-wraiths!"

Daggit couldn't help being concerned, "What's wrong?"

"This!" she muttered bitterly, "When I agreed to work for the Orion's, it was supposed to be as a courier. I wasn't supposed to fight anyone. The arrangement was for two years if service in exchange for biogenic nerve toxins designed to kill Cardassians."

"I take it this isn't the case?"

Her eyes met his. The bitterness there made him want to reach out to her, "Within six months, every Bajoran was assembled and dispatched on a mercenary mission to help the Andergani suppress a revolt on one of their satrapies."

"You've been inside the Oligarchy?" he nearly sputtered.

"Yes." She said sullenly.

_I can't believe my luck!_ Daggit thought excitedly, _A live source of intel data! Maybe I won't have to leave her here._

"I'd almost forgotten who I was, and then you came along." She sighed.

"Is that a bad thing?" he asked nervously.

"No!" she shook her head fervently, "It's just that you still know what it's like to fight _for _something. I've forgotten how."

He leaned closer, "I don't think you've completely forgotten, I just think you need a reminder on how."

Her eyes met his and he saw longing there. Her lips met his an instant later. It was a fierce kiss born of years of isolation and loneliness. He returned it just as fervently.

It was at that moment he felt the transporter field take effect. _Oh, hell! Why did this have to happen now?_

* * *

Macen met Admiral Drake in the transporter room as she materialised. She nodded her thanks to the tech on duty and they departed straightaway for the conference room she'd been given for her "surprise inspection" of the Starbase's counter-intelligence section. The cover was, as the best were, only part fiction.

"What the hell is going on?" Drake asked as soon as the doors slid shut behind them, "I read the summary of your report on my way here. You have a member of Section 31 on the damn team?"

Macen shook his head, "_Former_ member."

"I don't care if she's a former Miss Federation." Drake retorted bitterly, "We formed this unit to conduct intelligence ops _without_ Section 31's involvement."

Macen snorted, "Like they haven't riddled their way throughout Command."

"I'd like to see them try." Drake replied hotly.

Macen gave her a wry look, "Their organisation has been in existence for as long as Starfleet's existed. You don't honestly believe they haven't got moles impeded throughout the bureaucratic tapestry that comprises the Federation?"

She sank into a chair, bringing a hand up to rub her temple, "I suppose not."

He sat in the chair across the table from hers, "Good. Now, I need to know what assets we have in place to respond Spencer's forces."

She gave him a sharp glance, "I thought you didn't know where he was?"

"Trust me." He said with a grim smile, "My people have tracked him down."

"What makes you so certain?"

"Call it a hunch." He replied enigmatically.

Drake had read the reports from Macen's superiors over the last eighty years. He'd always had a knack for predicting events across the Quadrant. Later intelligence reports would confirm his analyses. His enigmatic reply to how he did it remained the same: a hunch.

Federation scientists had debated on whether or not the El-Aurians possessed sensory perceptions well beyond human ranges. The debate was increased by the simple fact no El-Aurians would give a definitive answer _and _their medical examinations showed them to be nearly genetically identical to humans. Their inexplicable tendency to understand and predict space-time phenomena kept the debate alive.

Drake had neither the energy nor the time to revisit the old debates, "We have a task force standing by. It's comprised of several _Akira_, _Intrepid_, and _Defiant_-class ships. We'll have the ability to come in fast, strike hard, and get out."

Macen nodded, "Sounds good. We also need to discuss another problem."

Drake looked perplexed, "What other problem?"

"My team's cover." He replied, "Its faulty. I think I know a way of solving that issue."

_Why do I have a feeling I won't like the "solution"_, she thought, aloud she said, "What is the supposed problem and your solution to it?"

"A decent computer systems operator could dig through the records and discover my team's true loyalties." He explained, "The best solution is 'officially' discharge the core team members from Starfleet."

Drake resumed rubbing her temples, "How did I see this coming?"

"Think about." Macen cajoled, "The Romulans stole the _Prometheus_ while she was conducting trials. That was one of Starfleet's most classified projects. You and I both know Starfleet's counter-intelligence capabilities are a joke. Eventually, someone's going to sift through the records to find our names, and they'll find them. I don't feel like getting killed because my name's still on the Fleet rolls."

She held up her hands in surrender, "I see your point. I'm just wondering how I'll get it past Nechayev."

"Just remind her of how she retained Calhoun." Macen suggested, "That should open a few doors. And if that isn't enough, I may provide you with the perfect excuse."

Drake raised an inquisitive eyebrow but did not inquire further.

* * *

Daggit and Radil solidified still locked in an embrace, and in a seated position. They separated and went into a tuck and roll with exceptionally fluid grace. They both came up in fighting crouches. The transporter held their weapons in its buffer. They prepared for unarmed combat while orienting themselves to their new location.

They were in a Federation built transporter room. Two other humans were in the room as well. Both wore identical black tunics and pants. It was obviously meant as a uniform of some kind. Its unfamiliarity automatically bred suspicion in Daggit's mind and his list of suspects was woefully short.

"Okay, you have us here." Daggit conceded without dropping his stance, "But what interest would Section 31 have in the Orion Syndicate?"

The short, sandy-haired man standing next to the transporter console smiled amiably, "You're a quick one, but then you'd have to be to be working with Brin Macen."

Daggit's eyes narrowed, "Who?"

The 31 man chuckled, "You can drop the pretences Lieutenant. I'm here to deliver a message from your illustrious commander."

Radil stared at Daggit with a mixed look of horror and surprise, "You're _Starfleet_?"

Daggit nodded slowly, "I was sent to discover if the Syndicate had any connections with the Andergani."

Radil whirled suddenly, her fist catching his jaw. His head snapped around, followed by the rest of him. He kept his reflexes in check and did not reply in kind. The anger smouldering in her eyes was suddenly more painful than the blow she had just delivered.

She turned to face the 31 agent, "What's your part of this?"

He was unfazed by her angry tone, "I serve Federation interests. For now, it suits those interests to 'overlook' the Syndicate's presence here."

"And when it serves the Federation to notice?"

He shrugged casually, "Who can say?"

"Figures." She muttered darkly.

"You said you had a message." Daggit put in curtly, "What is it?"

"The authentication code is IL 876." The man said without a flickering of its true meaning, "The message is simple. You are to return to Starbase 412 post haste by any means available. It just so happens that we are headed in that direction. Would you like a ride?"

"Do I have a choice?" Daggit inquired cynically.

"I could always return you to the surface. But judging by the lady's present mood, I wouldn't recommend it."

"I agree." Daggit admitted reluctantly, "When do we get underway?"

"Five minutes ago." The agent replied with a smirk, "My aide here will show you to your accommodations. For security reasons, they will be locked and you will not leave them until we arrive. At that point you will be transported to the Starbase. Any attempts to leave your quarters will be met with deadly force. Any questions?"

"When do the interrogators arrive?" Daggit asked sourly.

"They are unnecessary. We already know everything there is to know about you and your mission."

* * *

Dracas, Edgars, and Witt moved quietly along as T'Lis led them through a path in the jungle. At least, that's what T'Lis claimed it was. The three Starfleet officers could see no markers or signs of a path but T'Lis plunged boldly onward through the dark vegetation. Because the world orbited a binary combination of a yellow giant and a brown dwarf, even though the yellow primary had set, a gloomy light was still present.

"When does true darkness fall?" Dracas asked T'Lis thirty minutes into their march.

"In three hours." T'Lis replied with unwavering calm despite the exertion of the hike, "It will remain so for approximately seven more hours. The planet maintains a 27.3 standard hour day. Four hours of partial light followed by seven hours under no direct radiance."

She stopped suddenly, "Stay here. I will inform the others of your imminent arrival. You are safe from orbital detection due to the abundant life signs surrounding you."

Dracas conceded to himself that this was true enough as she vanished into the fronds surrounding them. He spared a glance at his two companions. Witt had taken the news of her pregnancy in stunned silence. She had not uttered a word about it since leaving the Healers' hut.

_Not that she's really had an opportunity to._ He acknowledged.

Edgars seemed the most unsteady of the pair. The news had shaken her to the core. She obviously held herself responsible for the fate of her officer and the deaths of her crew. The only thing even allowing her to maintain a semblance of normalcy was her determination to "set a proper example to bolster her subordinate".

Dracas found this bitterly ironic sine Witt was accepting the news much more stoically. Her eyes held the same resignation and determination he'd seen often enough in the recordings of his ancestors. She refused to allow her former captor's any more power over her by allowing her condition to hinder her resolve. She would survive, and in doing so, thwart the harm they'd tried to inflict.

She'd still require years of extensive counselling and evaluations. Starfleet would spare nothing to assist her in healing herself. The service prided itself on taking care of its own. _As long as you can get back into their bosom_.

T'Lis reappeared as suddenly as she'd vanished, "All is in readiness. Please follow me."

* * *

T'Kir's eyes snapped open as a strangled cry escaped her lips. She'd sat alone on the floor of her cabin aboard the _Delight_ and had stretched out her telepathy as far as she could, trying to catch a whiff of Dracas' mental scent. The task would not be easy. She'd only spent a few hours in his presence and even then her abilities had been medicinally reduced to Vulcan norms.

She knew the general miasma of misery surrounding the place would make it even more difficult. She just couldn't sit and do nothing. Unfortunately, a gang rape occurring nearby had erupted as she'd begun her "scan". She'd found herself sucked into the woman's horror and pain.

She'd barely found the resources to break the link. Part of her loathed leaving the poor wretch alone with her tormentors. She'd already been reduced to nearly animalistic mannerisms and instincts due to the abuse she'd already suffered. As her mind had shut down, it had nearly taken T'Kir's with it.

She forced herself to her feet and made it to the san. She splashed cold water on her face and took a look at herself in the mirror. Her face was drawn and haggard. More and more of her resources were being committed to shunting out the intruding thoughts constantly bellowing around her.

With the Maquis, she'd shared others nervousness, despair, hope, and rage. Even at their worst, she'd never encountered minds as twisted and depraved as these. She realised how foolish it had been for her to stop her medicines. This was too much.

She knew Macen would never have sent her on this mission if he'd known she wouldn't take her herbs. She closed her eyes and stretched out with her mind. She cast her thoughts towards him and pleaded with him with all of her remaining resources. _Brin, I've found them. Find me!_

* * *

Macen sat at the edge of his bunk rubbing his forehead. He'd been up for nearly forty-eight hours now. He didn't want to sleep now, but knew his stamina was waning. He'd faced too many perils and injuries over the last few days to push himself this hard.

His mind drifted absently when he heard a desperate voice call his name, _Brin, I've found them. Find me!_ Macen bolted upright. It had been T'Kir's voice, as plain as though she were in the room.

He cleared his frantic thoughts as best as he could and focused on her mental voice. He followed the threads of the universe, guided by her cry. It led to a planet orbiting a yellow giant and a brown dwarf. His eyes snapped open. He knew where the bastards were.

He activated the computer terminal and began an astrometrics search. Only one known system in Andergani territory matched that profile. He downloaded the data to a padd. Now he just needed Daggit to return and a ship.

He clenched his eyes shut and projected his thoughts as strongly as he could so that T'Kir could hopefully hear them. _Just hold on! I know where you're at and I'm coming. Just hold on as long as you can until I get there!_


	18. Chapter 18

229

Uprising

_I'm coming!_ Macen's voice tickled at the edge of T'Kir's consciousness. She almost collapsed in desperate fatigue and relief. The mere knowledge that help was on its way bolstered her resolve. She'd tried to fight this world's thoughts alone and discovered that she was not the proverbial island of strength. She'd met her limitations and for the first time in very long while, had sought aid. To her overwhelming joy, that aid would be provided.

Over the years, T'Kir had hardened herself to a cynical paradigm based upon her experiences in both the temporal and telepathic realms. She'd seen the lies that often softened people's true motives. "Justice" often became a euphemism for revenge, "love" for lust, it went on and on. She'd distanced herself from others in an effort to shield her mind from theirs and their falsehoods.

It seemed fitting somehow that Macen should once again be at the centre of a paradigm shift without an inertial damper for her. He seemed to have a knack for it. She wondered briefly whether or not his view of life had ever been challenged. Remembering how his people had been scattered to the solar winds by their assimilation by the Borg, she chided herself for the peevish thought.

Macen, alone of all the people she knew, could understand her sentiments. As she'd rejected her people's martial belief in pacifism and logic, so he'd rejected his people's belief in observance and inaction. She'd garnered her information through discreet eavesdropping over the years of their acquaintance. He was as much a pariah among his own as she was.

For the first time, she realised that this was the great bond between them. For all of the headaches she subjected him to, he'd never abandoned her for they were kindred spirits. The bond between them had survived war, separations, and even other commitments. She sucked in a startled breath as she realised for the first time that she was in love with him.

She knew that he would never abandon her. Nor would he ever intentionally cause her harm. She'd known it for years, but had never dared acknowledge it for it would have forced her to confront her feelings. She admitted that many of her past antics had been contrived merely to keep his focus upon her. It shamed her to admit this, knowing full well that he would never have forsaken her.

Her libidinous behaviour towards him had been both a mask and a forlorn hope. She'd used it to disguise her own desires from herself even as she tried to push him to reveal his own feelings on the matter. He'd behaved honourably throughout even though she knew she'd trodden dangerously close to the line on several occasions. Her shame strengthened her resolve to see this mission through.

It was a chance for redemption and also a chance to amend the past. With the loss of the _Odyssey_ and of Lisea Danan, a new chapter was beginning in the lives of both Macen and T'Kir. Many of the ties to their old life were gone. She hoped beyond hope that their new life would bring them closer.

She knew that her chances of ever winning his affections were slim. How could she, after playing her role too well? She pledged to herself that she would stand by him as he'd stood by her, asking nothing but respect and comradeship. For the first time in her life, she wished she believed in a deity to beseech on her behalf.

She met her reflected gaze with far more confidence than she'd felt in some time. She would overcome her own limitations and not allow the psychic pressures to overwhelm her. People's lives were in the balance. For the first time in a long while, she recognised a common good that embraced more than her adopted kin in the Maquis.

Unlike Macen, T'Kir had never been one for absolutes. Her philosophical experience being one of pragmatic relativism. Now, she understood the fact that certain principles had to be upheld no matter the personal cost. She understood and embraced it wholeheartedly.

_I will make my stand here and stop these killers, _she vowed, _not for revenge sake, but because it is _right_!_

* * *

Drake led Macen to an observation port outside her temporary office, "There's your ship for the duration of this operation."

Floating in space, a _Defiant_-class escort gleamed. The first dedicated warship ever built by Starfleet, it was a marvel of engineering. Essentially a saucer section of a conventional starship equipped with a warp drive and some of the most formidable weaponry ever mounted on a starship. The first of her series had become a legend during the Dominion War.

"She's the _USS Ironclad_." Drake explained, "Officially, she's still under the command of Captain Xerix Togra. In actuality, the entire crew is enjoying a well-deserved shore leave on Risa. The complement is now comprised of Intel operatives."

Noticing his wry expression, she smiled, "I can assure you that every crewmember is a seasoned starship veteran. Every man and woman aboard is an Operations agent that jumped at the chance to apprehend these pirates."

"And if they can't be apprehended?" Macen asked with an uncharacteristic edge to his voice.

She fixed him with a cold, hard stare, "There is no room for vendettas in Starfleet, Captain. We aren't the Maquis. These criminals will be brought in to stand trial for their crimes."

"And if they choose to die rather than surrender?" he asked acidly.

"It is your duty to make certain that does not happen." She replied angrily, "I want them brought in alive. No exceptions and no excuses. Is that understood?"

His eyes met hers, and she could see the barely restrained anger there, "Understood, ma'am."

"Good." She replied, fearing that her words had been wasted.

* * *

Daggit and Radil blinked as their eyes adjusted to the change in ambient light as they materialised in a cargo bay. Macen stood waiting for them. Daggit frowned as he saw Macen break into a grin. He'd seen this look before.

"Couldn't resist picking up a souvenir, eh?" Macen asked teasingly.

Daggit tried to fix him with his sternest glare while praying his cheeks weren't colouring. Daggit had explained his mission to Radil during the voyage here. After her earlier wrath, he had been surprised at how easily she'd accepted his explanation. She'd merely shrugged and stated she was more concerned with avoiding prosecution than harbouring bruised feelings.

"Ms. Radil has been of immeasurable assistance to me during the course of my investigation." Daggit began but was cut off by a wave of Macen's hand.

"I don't need to know." He replied and fixed his gaze squarely on Radil, "Want a job?"

Her head jerked back in surprise, "What?"

"I asked if you want a job." Macen answered, "You've obviously impressed Rab. That isn't easy. I'm always looking for good hands and we've openings on our team. Interested?"

"But you're Starfleet, and I'm..." her voice drifted off, drowned by painful memories.

"I work with Starfleet but I'm not exactly Starfleet." Macen replied, ignoring Daggit's startled expression, "I don't think you'll get a better offer from Starfleet itself, so what do you say?"

"I'm in, I guess." She answered hesitantly.

"Good." Macen smiled, "Now I'll show you to the ship we've 'borrowed' and we can finally get underway."

As they proceeded down the corridors towards the transporter room, Daggit leaned in close to Macen, "Captain, I don't mean to pry but you said we work with Starfleet but we're not part of it?"

"I'll fill you in later." Macen said evasively, "You'll have some decisions to make but they can wait until we've finished this mission."

Daggit nodded in silence and continues on. He'd known, as all the team had, of Macen's unhappiness with Starfleet. Their leader had demonstrated far too much disregard for protocol and procedure to be happy in the modern Starfleet. He'd wondered how much longer Macen would tolerate working under Fleet auspices and it now appeared he had his answer.

* * *

Dracas, Edgars, and Witte stared at the assembled crowd with undisguised surprise. They'd never imagined the rebel group could possibly be so large. Numbering nearly four dozen people, it was small compared to Spencer's crew alone. It was still sufficient to undertake the kind of guerrilla operations Dracas had in mind.

"Who's in charge here?" Dracas whispered to T'Lis.

"If you are asking who has been placed in superlative authority over the others," she replied, "that would be me."

Dracas managed to swallow his shocked retort, "Then I may have a few ideas to discuss with you."

Dracas could have sworn the Vulcan almost smiled as she gestured towards a nearby table situated in the centre of the cave that comprised the rebel base, "Then let us trade strategies."

* * *

Daggit noticed that neither Macen nor Grace had resumed wearing their Starfleet uniforms. They still wore their Outbound Ventures attire, even though they were on the command deck of the _Ironclad_. Daggit had followed suit, as had Radil after replicating a set. Macen took the command chair as Grace slid into the helm and the two soldiers each took a place at a Tactical station.

Owing to its dedicated purpose as an escort and attack ship, the class was the only one in Starfleet with dual Tactical stations active at the same time. Due to its small size, it was also one of the few without an auxiliary bridge. Helm and Ops functions were also combined. The Science post was relatively small compared to other fleet vessels. Science's role aboard ship was minuscule, mainly providing comprehensive sensor coverage beyond the narrow confines of the targeting and navigational systems. The station did little, however, to provide comprehensive equipment to study any phenomena that might be encountered.

The _Ironclad _set out from the starbase, setting course for the co-ordinates derived from Macen's contact with T'Kir. She led a squadron of _Akira_-class cruisers, a half dozen _Sabre_-class scouts, and another half dozen _Defiant_-class escorts. The baker's dozen was composed of the fastest and most heavily armed vessels available. The pirate's stolen starships and modified privateers were about to be severely outgunned.

* * *

The change in T'Kir startled Kort. Three days ago, she'd been a borderline neurotic. The next morning she'd been filled with the same steely determination she'd displayed while dispatching Lt. D'art. He didn't know the reason behind the transformation, but he thanked Kahless for it.

They'd spent the last two days convassing the pirate camp. They were now familiar with the operations structure and most of the leading pirates. Kort was beginning to grow weary of seemingly endless observations and had asked T'Kir when she thought they should strike a blow against the pirates. She'd given him an enigmatic smile and merely said the time would present itself.

This almost infuriated the Klingon as much as her earlier dementia had. It also reminded him of Macen. He suddenly wondered _how _close the two had become over the years. The tension between T'Kir and Lisea Danan had certainly been thick enough to suggest many things. T'Kir's reaction to Macen's friendliness towards Wen only added to the picture.

They had explored the width and breadth of the city. Today was the first day they'd neared the headquarters of the supposed city watch. What passed for a police force were thugs grounded from shipboard duties for various reasons. Their patrols were effective since violators of the city's few ordinances rarely survived their infractions.

As they neared the weathered stone building, T'Kir paused and began to watch several workers milling about near the entrance to the building. Kort wondered why she was so interested in what appeared to be typical workers. One of the slaves noticed the scrutiny but did nothing. After a moment, T'Kir moved on and proceeded to the entrance.

Under the floppy sun hat, Dracas kept a watchful eye out for crewmembers from Spencer's ship. He had two of T'Lis' men with him. While Edgars led another group in creating a diversion, Dracas and his two would penetrate the security building and wreak as much havoc with their systems as possible. He'd stopped when he saw two pirates approaching the building.

When he recognised the two, his heart nearly stopped in his chest. Of all the people to find on this forsaken hellhole, T'Kir and Kort were the last ones he'd have expected. Brin Macen had struck him as a fiercely determined commander and his reputation was certainly formidable. Dracas had to admit he didn't know Macen well enough to predict what he'd do.

He wondered how he could get their attention when T'Kir stopped and began studying him and his men. He prayed she'd move on before her scrutiny attracted the attention of the four guards posted at the building's entrance. His heart leapt into his throat when she winked at him. How in the name of the seven chasms had she recognised him? What would she do now?

T'Kir almost giggled in anticipation. For the last two days, she'd picked up agitated thoughts from Spencer's people regarding two escaped Starfleet officers and an unnamed engineer from a civilian vessel. They'd also worried about a rumoured slave uprising. T'Kir suspected that Dracas had somehow fallen in with these rebels and would be unable to resist an opportunity to harass the pirates.

She'd begun hearing fleeting mental voices pondering diversions and an upcoming action against the security watch. That had inspired her little visit to the building this morning. Upon arriving, she'd easily picked out his mental "signature". The hours she'd spent with him isolating the sensor problems allowed her to recognise him no matter what disguise he wore.

It didn't allow her to communicate directly with his mind. She hoped his confusion was a result of recognising her. Her wink had been intended as a reassurance that she understood his plans and would assist him. She belatedly realised he didn't know the strength of her telepathic abilities and wouldn't realise that her next efforts were on his behalf.

She was already in motion and didn't have time to worry about that right now. If Dracas didn't make the connection within the next few moments, then the man was an undisputed idiot. That particular possibility would lead to her failure and eventual capture. She had to guarantee he understood and that meant taking risks that would be unacceptable under other conditions.

Four humanoids guarded the entrance to the watch's headquarters. The two on the right were both human. The two on the right were a human and an Andorian. T'Kir shifted to the right. Kort wouldn't care that one of his opponents was a female and she didn't trust a physician's reflexes against an Andorian in his prime.

The Andorian was leaned against the wall while his human companion took the forward position at the top of the stairs. T'Kir flew up the stairs lightly with a smile on her face. She appreciated the fact Kort was still with her. She was still smiling when her fist smashed into the man's face, breaking the cartilage in his nose.

Her knee drove into his stomach and she took hold of his shoulders as he doubled over. She twisted as she used his weight and momentum to hurl him down the steps. Kort had expertly disabled his opponent with an upward blow to the head. He followed this up with a quick twist of the man's neck. He lunged forward at the woman as his previous opponent crumpled to the ground.

As T'Kir had feared, the time spent with her first opponent had given the Andorian time to clear his phaser form its holster. He was already bringing it up for a shot. It was all a matter of training and reflexes. She just hoped hers were better than an alien's trained for battle since birth.

It was obvious he'd been classically trained at the Andorian Battle College. He'd adopted a wide stance with his knees slightly bent. It anticipated her adopting the classic Vulcan martial arts response to meeting an armed opponent. She was suddenly glad she'd never learned Vulcan martial arts.

She turned her body sideways to minimise the target she offered her foe while she increased her rate of approach. Millimetres now meant the difference between life and death. She swept her left hand out to sweep his gun hand aside. She clasped his wrist as she did so and exerted as much pressure as she could manage as she did so.

Her right hand flashed out with her knuckles extended. The blow was intended for the Andorian's throat. He twisted, causing her blow to glance the side of his neck. He tried to sweep her waist with his wiry arm as he lunged forward. Unaware that their contact brought his every thought to T'Kir with utter clarity, he was surprised when she turned with his movement and thrust out a leg simultaneously. Her grip on his wrist as well as his arm catching enough of her waist toppled her over.

He landed sideways on the steps while she landed on her stomach with one hand underneath her to cushion part of the impact. He continued to roll while she remained immobile. His movement stopped when she jerked hard on his wrist. His arm snapped tight, stopping his fall, as well as pulling his shoulder out of joint with an audible popping noise.

The Andorian hissed in pain as he felt her release his wrist. He glanced up and saw she'd snatched the phaser from his weakened grasp. She rotated the phaser into firing position and depressed the activation stud. The phaser's previous owner had always kept it on a high enough setting to kill most humanoid lifeforms. He paid for that decision now.

Kort's last opponent let out a gasp as he broke her arm. Her phaser clattered to the ground. He never bothered to look at it as he chopped downward on the woman's neck, knocking her unconscious. He turned to see T'Kir gathering the phaser as she stood.

He also saw three men running towards them. His hand flashed for his own disrupter even as her hand rose to forestall his taking action. One of the approaching slaves looked familiar. As the leader of the three shabbily dressed men ripped a floppy straw hat from his head, Kort started with recognition.

"That was incredible!" Dracas breathed in admiration.

"It was foolish." Kort growled, "If any of Spencer's men had been here, they would have raised an alarm."

"There weren't any within earshot." T'Kir replied as calmly as she could while gathering her breath, "We had to do it this way to insure that Dracas here continued his mission."

"What mission?" Kort demanded in exasperation.

"How do you know of our mission?" Dracas demanded, matching the Klingon's bluster.

T'Kir gave him a Cheshire cat smile that chilled him to the bone, "I'm a mind reader. So's your Vulcan lady friend. You might want to watch those kind of thoughts around her."

Dracas' cheeks coloured, "I don't know what you mean."

"Sure you don't." she chuckled as she tossed him the two phasers she'd acquired, "If your men could help drag the bodies inside?"

Dracas handed off one of the phasers and knelt down to grab the man Kort had killed. The other two with him each took one of T'Kir's former opponents. Kort drape the woman over his shoulder. T'Kir drew her phaser as she palmed the lockplate to the door.

It opened effortlessly. She stepped in quietly, her senses straining to detect potential threats. Not finding any, she motioned for the others to follow her. Dracas and the slaves placed the corpses in a room adjoining the hallway the entrance emptied into. Kort placed the woman in a closet and shut it.

T'Kir made a V with her fingers, pointing at her eyes. She then motioned for Kort and one of the slaves to proceed upstairs. She pointed at the other slave and made a stopping motion with her hand. He nodded his understanding.

She waved for Dracas to follow her as she proceeded further down the hallway. She went silent as her sensitive ears detected the sound of a clinking glass. She stood silently by the door as a Bajoran woman exited the room through the door. T'Kir's hand flashed out and deftly pinched the nerve bundle at the woman's shoulder.

The woman's head jerked towards the offended nerves and then she went limp. T'Kir caught her and lowered her gently to the floor, dragging her away from the entrance. Dracas spun into the doorway with his phaser at the ready. He shook his head as he glanced towards T'Kir to let her know the room was vacant. She could smell the remains of a burnt plant from the room and the woman. She'd inhaled a depressant narcotic of some kind and its interference with her normal mental processes had shielded her from T'Kir's telepathy. That knowledge burned itself into T'Kir's mind.

She motioned towards a stairwell at the end of the hall. They proceeded quietly. As they neared, she could feel the subtle psychic pressure of several minds. She couldn't tell how many but knew there were at least four, probably closer to six.

She holstered her phaser and held up six fingers before pointing down at the floor. She heard the whine of a phaser above her. She glanced towards the ceiling. Dracas gave her a puzzled look and she shook her head. Her hearing could detect the blast, but not anyone modelled on the standard human genome.

She pulled her phaser from her belt and the holdout Type I palm sized model she'd secreted in the small of her back. She took a deep breath to ready herself for the upcoming conflict. Dracas wore a bemused expression. She scowled at him and nodded for him to proceed down the stairwell first. His amusement disappeared instantly.

He kept his phaser behind his back as he walked down the stairs. As he passed the flooring and he could see the room opening up before him. He noted four humanoids monitoring several consoles. Two other Watch officers sat with their feet propped up. One was a Nausicaan and the other an Angosian. Dracas resisted an urge to sigh at the sight of the fierce mercenary warrior and the ex-commando.

The four monitoring began swearing as their consoles sounded. Dracas knew this was a result of his diversionary teams. He tried to figure out how to capitalise on the Watch's momentary confusion. T'Kir solved that riddle by launching into action immediately upon clearing the stairs.

She fired two phaser bursts, one for the Nausicaan and the other at the Angosian. Both weapons were on disintegration settings. Dracas snapped up his phaser and shot one of the techs with his back turned towards Dracas. T'Kir spun towards the techs, her Type I cutting a swathe as she did so, forcing two of them to duck. The third panicked and jumped up into the beam as it passed her.

T'Kir brought her other phaser to bear as Dracas flanked the panicked enemy. He shot the first one as he crawled towards him. The other dropped her weapon. Dracas shrugged and then stunned her.

T'Kir smirked as she dropped into a chair occupied only a moment before, "Still warm."

Dracas glared at her, "Couldn't you have used a lighter setting?"

She arched an eyebrow, "When both Nausicaans and Angosians can shrug of settings that would stun a Terran elephant? Let me think."

Dracas' face twisted up at her sarcastic chastisement. He heard footsteps descending down the stair well. He readied his phaser. T'Kir stayed at the console and continued typing in commands.

"At ease, Secret Agent Man, they're on our side." She remarked.

As the two descended, it proved to be Kort and his accomplice, "The upstairs is secured. There were five, all sleeping."

"So's number six." T'Kir informed him.

"I saw." Kort admitted, "I added to her slumber with a stun blast."

"Good for you." T'Kir muttered as her eyes narrowed. She'd found what she was looking for. In a flurry of movement, she tapped the panel until the screen displayed an entirely different configuration. She rose with a triumphant smirk.

"Time to leave boys." She said and pulled out her two phasers. The others began shuffling up the stairs as she adjusted the setting of her weapons. She didn't want to vaporise the consoles, just disable their control interfaces. Two sweeping bursts later, she was satisfied and headed up the stairs.

She started up the stairs, then paused. She looked upwards and then her face brightened in a beatific smile. The others were gathered in front of the main entrance to the building. Kort noticed her expression and asked her what had happened.

She ignored him and addressed Dracas, "I suppose you have a rendezvous with your rebel cohorts?"

He nodded warily, "Of course. Why?"

"I have some news they might want to hear." She said with genuine pleasure, "Macen's here, and he's not alone."


	19. Chapter 19

242

Uprising

Herbert Spencer was not a happy man. Over the course of the last month every piece of his carefully constructed empire had begun to crumble. It had started when he attacked the _USS Horta_. That had been an unnecessary indulgence. He simply should have set course for the Andergani side of the border and waited until the Federation tired of endless negotiations with the Oligarchy.

His attempts to break the officers seemed to be proceeding as he'd hoped. His medics had reversed Witte's anti-conception injection. They'd also confirmed that she'd been impregnated. This gave him a psychological weapon to employ against her captain's stubbornness.

He never savoured that moment thanks to that damned engineer they'd pulled off that survey ship they'd destroyed. The ship had fought too effectively and the engineer had been too clever at manipulating their systems for either of them to be anything but Starfleet. Spencer at least had the satisfaction that the ship and most of her crew were dead. The engineer, on the other hand, was loose amongst his subjects.

He was certain that the escaped Starfleet personnel were behind the fires set at the storage depot and the grain depositories. The idiots were igniting their own food. Spencer and his men had access to their ships' replicators. The only motive was to harass his men.

He'd sent several crewmen to investigate why the Watch had not replied to the alarms yet. They'd just reported in. They'd found the surviving members of the Watch unconscious and the security network scrambled by some invasive program. None of the defensive, surveillance, or containment systems the Watch normally controlled were operable.

Spencer unloosed several vile epithets directed towards the missing engineer. He'd undoubtedly rallied the pathetic resistance movement the slaves thought they'd managed to keep hidden from Spencer and the Watch. Spencer had neither the time nor the patience to cajole his plunder hungry allies into aiding his men in helping suppress the nascent revolution.

His comm badge chirped and he swatted it testily, "What?"

"Sir!" The _Royalty's _standing Tactical officer exclaimed, "Eighteen starships have just dropped out of warp and are on an approach for this planet."

Spencer swore even more vehemently. Starfleet had found them at long last and had decided that risking a potential intergalactic incident was worth capturing him. He wondered whom he'd pissed off to rate so highly? He supposed he'd find out soon enough.

* * *

The true number of starships approaching was twenty-five. Seven of these had employed cloaking devices only just recently allowed by an amendment to the treaty of Algeron. The Romulans, acknowledging that the _Defiant's _cloaking device had proven decisive during the recent war, consented to allow twelve of the newly built vessels of the same class to carry identical Romulan built devices. The Star Empire would of course be richly compensated with trade concessions and technological transfers.

Macen led these forces. By his orders, Captain Roonik of the _Akira_-class _USS Landru_, was the "official" task force commander and would handle all communications with the pirates. Macen's presence would remain discreet. There had been some resistance at his engagement plans, since they put the _Defiant_-class ships at higher risk then the rest, but the commanders of those same vessels had loudly protested that they'd accept the risks on their own authority.

Macen's group had dropped out of warp beyond the pirate's estimated sensor range and proceeded swiftly onward under impulse. The rest of the force dropped out of warp thirty minutes later, but two light minutes closer. As the relative physics worked out, that only gave Macen's group a five-minute lead on the rest of the ships. Fortunately, his plan was simple. The cloaked ships would flank the pirates as they moved to engage the starships. At Macen's signal, they would drop their cloaking shields and engage the pirates even as the rest opened up on them. The only change to the plan would be if Spencer surrendered upon being challenged. Since no one thought this likely, the plan proceeded apace.

* * *

T'Kir unsuccessfully tried to hide a smirk upon seeing T'Lis' ragged band. They'd run themselves ragged trying to elude a Watch reprisal that never came. The distraction had been intended to empty the Watch house so Dracas' team could penetrate. They'd never reckoned on T'Kir and Kort's intervention. Try as she like, she couldn't imagine her former Maquis companions ever looking so wretched.

_Then again, Ro and Macen's teams were the exception to every rule._ T'Kir observed wryly. She'd been fortunate enough to serve with both commanders. Both leaders had racked up an inordinate number of victories against the Cardassians. In the end though, neither commander's luck had been able to stave the Dominion's slaughter of the Maquis.

T'Kir hoped to prevent a similar tragedy here, "I take it you're the local leader?" she asked T'Lis.

T'Lis nodded. She studied T'Kir intently, obviously trying to determine who she was and the meaning behind her decidedly un-Vulcanlike behaviour. T'Kir found it annoying. She was sick of people trying to figure out why she didn't meet their predisposed ideas of whom she should be.

"Then get your people under cover and wait until we come back." T'Kir ordered, "Reinforcements have just arrived. That means the pirates will be too busy dealing with Starfleet to bother you here. You can detain the Watch members before they have a chance to recuperate."

"And yourself?" T'Lis asked in that uniquely Vulcan blend of intrigue and detachment.

"My commander's up there." She replied with unexpected fervour, "I'm not going to sit this out when I can try and help him."

T'Lis may or may not have been surprised by the passion in T'Kir's voice. It certainly rallied the other Starfleet personnel. Edgars and Witte practically begged to come with her. Dracas merely assumed he would be joining T'Kir and Kort aboard the _Idiot's Delight_ as she lifted.

Kort remained silent as T'Kir led them towards the spaceport at a jog. En route, she received summons from Spencer's XO to join them in facing the enemy. T'Kir readily agreed. He suppressed a grin as he reflected upon the simple fact that she left out who she regarded as the enemy.

* * *

Spencer felt bile rising in his throat as he gazed at the tactical display on the main viewer. Not only had Starfleet sent eighteen vessels, they'd sent eighteen of their fastest and most heavily armed ships. Both classes had begun their service life just prior to the outbreak of the war. The _Sabre_-class had replaced the _Blackbird_-class scout he'd destroyed days ago. The _Akira_-class cruisers were general purpose gunslingers.

_At least hey don't have any of those damned _Defiant_-class escorts._ He consoled himself with. Aloud, he ordered to be connected to all of his ships, "Hear me. The opposing force is coming in swiftly. They're Starfleet and that means you know their weaknesses and how to exploit them. They'll offer terms of surrender."

"While we pretend to ponder these terms, it will give us time to co-ordinate an assault that will provide the distraction we need to get away. Since they will be unable to stay in the vicinity for any length of time, or risk revealing their own operational double standards, we'll be able to regroup here in a few weeks. Stay strong, operate as a unit, and we'll all profit from this."

With that said, Spencer was certain his waffling allies would understand that he'd hunt down any ship and crew that broke ranks. They outnumbered the incoming starships. The Starfleet force may outgun them, but they held a slight numerical advantage. Since they would be far more interested in capturing their opponents, the Starfleet ships wouldn't respond with the same desperate aggressiveness the pirates would strike with. This would prove their downfall, as it had for the ill-fated _Horta_ and _Odyssey_.

* * *

Captain Roonik rubbed his mandibles with his left grasping limb while his other upper limb tapped out requests on his master plot display. _There were advantages to having multi-faceted eyes_, he mused. As a Bulgra, Roonik's closest Terran analogue was a dragonfly. He wore a vocoder around his neck that bore his rank insignia, department colours and communicator as well as translated the carapacial vibrations that served as his species speech into Federation standard.

His command chair was essentially a low slung couch his four legs lowered him upon. His XO had the seat next to his and it was designed for the humanoid majority serving aboard. There was a fair amount of good-natured humour regarding the fact that the Captain alone ever sat in the command chair of the _USS Landru_.

Roonik appreciated the jokes. As his races' sole representative in Starfleet, he knew they'd made considerable adaptations to allow him to serve the command he'd earned. He also knew he'd made considerable adaptations by forsaking his homeworld for so long. These humanoids almost looked _normal _to him now.

"Open an open channel to the pirates." His chest thrummed, to be repeated a second later by the vocoder in a neuter mechanical voice. Roonik himself had decided on an asexual voice. He'd discovered early in his Starfleet career that his appearance startled most unprepared humanoids. His genderless "voice" only added to their visceral discomfort.

* * *

_Ye gods, but that's an ugly beast._ Spencer commented to himself. He'd heard of the Bulgra. Their admission to Starfleet two dozen years prior had been a moment of much acclaim. They were the first insectoid species to join the Federation. He'd never known that one of them had risen to command, much less joined Starfleet.

"You are ordered to surrender. All vessels will heave to and prepare to be bordered for inspection of your holds and logs." The creature spoke in mechanical tones, undoubtedly a translator of some kind, "This action has been authorised by the Federation Council Special Committee on Extraterritorial Crime, the office of the President, and Starfleet Command's Special Investigation's Division."

_Whatt'ya know, _Spencer thought arrogantly, _Starfleet created a whole division just to deal with me. I'm touched._

* * *

The _Idiot's Delight _was just clearing the planet's atmosphere as the order was broadcast.

"Think they'll surrender?" Witte asked aloud from the Sensor station. Next to her at Tactical, Edgars bristled.

"Are you kidding?" T'Kir snorted disdainfully. She knew a man with a mind like Spencer's would never surrender. He'd sooner lead his followers to a bloody, futile death than face responsibility for the crimes committed to bolster his fragile ego.

"He's going down." She predicted. She could feel the feral joy emanating from Edgars. As much as she despised psychiatrists after her stint in the Andes Institute, she hoped Starfleet would have the presence of mind to ship the good captain off for some sorely needed "shore leave" before assigning her to a new command.

* * *

"We've got a _Skylark_-class courier rising from the planet's surface." Daggit reported.

Although Macen could sense T'Kir aboard that ship, he had to verify it through conventional means before ordering the task force from firing on the ship when the battle was joined. _At least of I want to avoid a lot of unwanted questions._

"Swipe her ID." He ordered.

"She's registered as... the _Idiot's Delight_ out of Bolar." Daggit replied with a trace of confusion over the name.

Macen chuckled, "It's a private joke. T'Kir and I used to bug other Maquis crews that only an idiot flew around in a _Skylark_. One Bolian commander retorted that he took delight in being able to serve the cause with his ship, so we privately nicknamed his ship the _Idiot's Delight_."

"So that's T'Kir and Kort?" Grace asked.

"Yep." Macen replied before Daggit could confirm it.

"Is that the same ship?" Radil asked, "As the one you nicknamed before?"

Macen's face filled with sorrow for a moment, "I can't think of any other reason she'd name it that. There are a lot of other names she could've chosen as a code to tip me off."

"Should we hail her?" Daggit asked.

"Use a whisker laser." Macen answered, happy to change the subject, "Tell her to hold position and standby to provide ECM."

* * *

"We're being hit with a whisker laser." Witte reported, "It's transmitting in pulses. The source is seven hundred metres off the port bow, but sensors don't show anything."

"It's a cloaked ship." T'Kir replied, "Its Macen. That pulse contains a message."

Witte was dubious for a moment owing to T'Kir's faraway expression, but ran the pulse patterns through the computer.

"I'll be damned." She muttered before saying in a louder voice, "We're ordered to hold position and provide ECM."

T'Kir broke into an expectant grin, "That means it's almost showtime."

* * *

"The pirates have not responded to our message, sir." Roonik's Tactical chief informed him.

"Now we wait for Macen's signal." Roonik thrummed in reply.

* * *

"We're in position." Grace announced, "Awaiting orders."

"Send to all ships." Macen ordered, "Decloak and unleash hell."

* * *

"What are the IDs on those three starships in the middle of the pirate formation?" Roonik inquired.

"Their IFF transponders label them as the Andergani Oligarchic Forces vessels _Royalty_, _Starburner_, and _Reaper_. However, Starfleet records show no record of any asset transfers to the Oligarchy."

"So they are stolen?"

"Their drive emissions match those of three missing Starfleet vessels, the _USS Manticore_, the _USS Horatio Nelson_, and the _USS Buzz Aldrin_."

"So we have found our deserters." Roonik said with satisfaction.

"Sir! The _Defiants _are decloaking!"

* * *

Spencer hands kneaded the armrests of his command chair. He'd just ordered all fore shields brought to double strength. He'd countered Roonik's demands with a feeble explanation that he'd time to discuss the matter with his unruly allies. Spencer knew Starfleet, there'd be no attack until every diplomatic posture had failed. That gave his ships time to prepare for a break out charge.

"Sir!" his Tactical officer cried out desperately, "Seven starships are decloaking behind us."

Defiant_-class_, Spencer thought miserably, _The bastards ambushed us!_

* * *

Seven oblong saucers appeared behind the pirate "fleet" and streaked forward towards them. As they did so, their shields came to life and their targeting sensors hungrily sought enemies upon which to expand their wrath. Phasers fired in staccato bursts rather than in solid beams like their cousins approaching the pirates. The phasers were tied directly to the warp core and delivered twice the firepower of the larger vessels.

Sparkling white quantum torpedoes rocketed away from Macen's squad between phaser bursts. The agile escorts deftly dodged the few photon torpedoes launched by enemy ships with aft launchers. Their torpedoes struck with devastating effect against the weakened shields of the pirates they struck. The hammer blows of the phasers made short work of the ships' crippled defences.

* * *

Roonik's forces manoeuvred to cut off any escape routed the desperate pirates might seek to exploit. They began surrendering in droves. Within moments of the conflicts beginning, every vessel save the three renegade starships had capitulated. Roonik sought to re-establish communications when he noticed an escort bearing down on the _Manticore/Royalty_.

"Warn Macen off!" he vibrated so loudly his crew could hear the movement before the vocoder translated the shout, "Break off dammit!"

* * *

Daggit manned the phasers and shields while Radil expertly guided the torpedoes. Their torpedoes were being guided ever metre rather than relying on internal guidance or ballistic shots. Her skilled reflexes made her a natural at the art. Daggit, even from the other side of the bridge, practically radiated pride in her ability.

"Bear down on the _Manticore_ and prepare to concentrate firepower." Macen ordered.

Grace sideslipped the smaller craft that Spencer had positioned to act as screening units. The starship began firing its own phasers to ward off the relentless foe. The two smaller starships each broke off and tried to find a hole in Roonik's screen. The _Ironclad _trembled as her shields shrugged off phaser blasts that Grace couldn't manage to avoid but she remained on course and closed in for the kill.

* * *

T'Kir's fingers flashed across the Ops board faster than Witte or Edgars could follow them. She'd triumphantly announced that she was "in" earlier. Neither knew what that meant but could tell by her feral expression as she focused on her screen that it did not bode well for the pirates. They each silently wished her luck.

"Take that you bastards!" she snarled as she tapped the last command in harshly. She sat back in her seat and stared out the cockpit's viewers. Witte and Edgars wondered what she hoped to see with her naked eye at these distances and returned to their sensor displays. T'Kir wore a contented smile as she focused on telepathically relaying her victory to Macen.

* * *

Spencer heard a sharp gasp behind him and he whirled on his hapless Tactical officer, "What now?"

She looked at him with a stricken expression, "Our defensive systems just deactivated."

Spencer visibly started, "What? Reactivate them!"

"We've been locked out." She replied, "Someone's encrypted the entire system and locked us out."

He turned towards the helm, "Jump to warp speed now!"

* * *

"Their shields have collapsed." Daggit reported with a confused tone.

Macen nodded as though this is what he'd expected all along, "Fire everything we have. Take us on a strafing run."

Phaser bursts and torpedoes poured forth from the escort as she passed over the afflicted starship. Grace brought the ship up and over in a hard loop and bore straight down upon them. The weapons pounded the saucer section of the defenceless ship. She veered off at the last instant whipped the ship around for an identical pass towards her drive section. The _Ironclad _broke off after this third pass.

"Sensors show a warp core breach." Daggit reported, "Estimated destruction in fifteen seconds."

"Make that ten." Radil corrected. Daggit shot her a look over his shoulder.

Macen smirked, "Helm, give us a countdown."

When Grace hit seven, the _Manticore_ exploded in an uncontrolled intermix of matter and anti-matter. Given the three seconds it took for the countdown to begin, Radil's prediction proved the correct one. Daggit swivelled his chair around and gave her a bow of his head. She accepted with aplomb.

"Find T'Kir's ship and bring us alongside." Macen told Grace.

"Captain Roonik is hailing us." Daggit informed his commander, "He insists upon speaking with you immediately."

"Tell Captain Roonik to begin boarding and securing the captured vessels." Macen replied, "We'll also need to detach several ships to investigate the planet but that can wait until _after_ I fond the rest of our team and we can debrief them regarding conditions there."

"Aye, sir." Daggit said with satisfaction and relayed the same to Roonik.


	20. Chapter 20

252

Uprising

Grace brought the _Ironclad_ alongside the _Delight_. She could practically feel Macen's impatience hitting her back in waves. She couldn't quite recall ever seeing him this disconcerted. She also had to admit her experience was fairly limited.

"Send to command of _Delight_, inform them we're coming aboard." Macen rose out of his chair, "Radil and Grace, you're with me. Daggit, you have the bridge."

* * *

They materialised in the cargo bay that also served as the transporter room. Kort stood before them with a worried expression and his disrupter drawn. He broke into a relieved smile as he recognised his "boarders". He bellowed for Dracas to join them.

"Captain," Dracas breathed in relief, "you can't imagine how happy I am to see you."

"Is everyone all right?" Macen asked.

Kort shook his head, "We have two former prisoners with us. They have been badly mistreated. Do we have access to proper medical facilities?"

Macen nodded, "You can beam them aboard the _Ironclad_ and treat them there." He gave Dracas a concerned look, "How bad was it?"

He could see the conflicting emotions on Dracas' face. He wanted to answer the question, but couldn't quite revisit the events. Macen waved the question away. He put his hand on the other man's shoulder.

"You're going with them." His stern glance killed Dracas' protests as they rose in his throat, "We can handle it. Your parts done. You've earned the rest."

Macen began to lead Radil and Grace out when Kort spoke again, "Captain, about T'Kir..."

The flare in Macen's eyes momentarily unnerved Kort and he had to recompose his thoughts, "She's not quite herself. She's been off her medication. I didn't know what to do."

Macen nodded, "Understood. You probably did the best you could."

Kort swallowed as Macen disappeared. Despite the kind words, he'd heard the disappointment in Macen's voice. Kort wondered if his commander knew how protective he was of his Ops specialist. _More to the point, _he mused, _would he ever admit it?_

They entered the cockpit of the courier to find two unknown women desperately grasping for phasers. Radil's hand snapped upward in an instant. The two women froze as they realised that the Bajoran could kill them without trying. Macen lowered her arm.

"We're on your side." He informed them, "If you'll go to the transporter, you'll be beamed over to the starship alongside this ship."

They both nodded mutely. They seemed unable, or unwilling, to indulge any hopes of their traumatic experience being over. Over at the helm, T'Kir slumped forward cradling her head in her hands. Having opened her mind in order to project her success to Macen, she was now unable to turn the raging cacophony of mental "noise" off.

"Grace, help me get her out of that chair." Macen said grimly.

Grace gingerly helped Macen get T'Kir to her feet. The Vulcan's face was haggard and her eyes stared at images only she could see. Her lips twitched in replies to conversations she alone could hear. Grace's heart wrenched to see her friends afflicted like this. Macen saw her grief and gave her a reassuring smile.

"She'll be fine, Hannah." He said encouragingly, "I just need a few moments alone with her and she'll be fine."

Grace nodded, but he could see she didn't believe him yet, "The best thing you can do is man the helm and think reassuring thoughts." He turned to Radil, "Can you man the weapons systems?"

"Better than anything else on this ship." She muttered.

He smirked as he led T'Kir shuffling form away, "Just give whomever a chance to surrender before you blast them."

Radil waited until Macen was out of earshot before asking under her breath, "Like you did?"

T'Kir shuffled along unresistant to Macen's gentle guidance. He steered her into what he intuitively knew had been her cabin. He sat her on the bed and took a seat next to hers. He wondered if he'd been added to the computer's datafiles and had his question answered when it complied with his request for the cabin's privacy lock to be engaged.

He took a deep breath and studied her for a moment. He didn't need his other senses to tell him that probabilities were twisting around her. He wished that he could see a way to choose the probability that would end in the results he desired, but knew that it would mostly be a matter of faith and luck. He'd never previously tried to do what he was about to attempt and knew that the tides of fortune could very well be against him in this.

He took a deep breath, clasped her hands and broadcast his thoughts as loudly as he could in order to garner her attention. He could distantly hear the torrent of minds that wailed for her attention. He knew had two advantages here over the rest. Vulcans are primarily touch-telepaths so their contact would strengthen their communication, and he was used to dealing with intangible realms.

She heard his mind like a beacon amidst a stormy sea, Focus on my mind. Block the others out.

He distantly felt her fingers tracing up his arms, seeking the nerve centres in his face, (I'm trying. There's just so many of them.)

You can do it. Ignore the rest, focus on me alone.

Her fingers found the pressure points in his face and he suddenly found himself yanked out of his own awareness into a swirling quagmire where their two individual minds coalesced into one. They found themselves undergoing ponn farr for the first time. The unrelenting fires that burned and the indescribably release of passions long suppressed. They saw his/her partner killed by Cardassians and experienced an equally passionate release of another kind as they killed them in their grief and rage.

They walked on another planet for the first time. Stretching out with senses long denied. Watching the twisting strands of probability as they wound about planets and individuals. They watched as they wound about their fellow sociologist, Arinae Ascern.

They heard the intruding mental voices increase in volume as they had during childhood. They made the decision to abandon logic and pursue the fulfilment of the dark rage that consumed them. The Maquis came, and they found a new home, and a means to seek that purpose the rage drove them to. But, the voices cried out ever louder and ever more urgently.

They saw the vast cubeships approaching their homeworld. The saw the flashing chords of probability severed as the Borg snapped them and recreated reality in their image. They saw again the narrow course the survivors carved through the Borg fleet and they followed it. They survived, as did those that followed.

They found it harder and harder to resist the dark impulses that leapt form others' minds. The thoughts were spawned by rages that matched their own. They knew the distrust the others felt when faced with their logical mask and the fear felt when the face beneath was revealed. They relived the pain and sorrow of being judged and condemned by her own people for abandoning their teachings.

They feel the rage of loss and the desire to defend their lives and freedom no matter the cost. The sundering from the rapture of the Nexus is devastating but they survive yet again. They felt the knife's twist as they're branded madman and warmonger. They are cast out from the scattered band of castaways.

They follow Ro Laren on a series of missions. Each one more dangerous than the last. The danger brings the voices to them louder and more strongly, but Ro is a pillar of strength. Her strength gives them the strength to endure the voices and wear the mask.

They accept a commission with Starfleet. It is a new life, but pains from the old one persist. The loss of exploring the depths of space with Arinae is still strongly felt. Eventually, another catches the eye, another lost old soul. Lisea Danan enters their life and fills part of the void of loneliness but there is still so much missing. She cannot accept the scars of the past and the determination they breed. She cannot accept their loathing of the Prime Directive.

They relive the fateful meeting with...themselves? Here, fate twists and binds. Bonds are forged and loyalties made. There is more, ever so much more, but those truths are guarded behind sturdy walls and barriers. But now the barriers are cracking and the light of truth can be seen shimmering forth.

Suddenly it is ended. Both Macen and T'Kir blink, recovering themselves. They have just seen more of themselves and each other than they have ever shared before in five years. It is a moment of awkward silence. They each stare at the other, eyes searching for things unseen and unsaid.

"Are you all right?" Macen asks, his voice hoarse.

T'Kir nods slowly, "I think so. My mental shields have been reinforced enough I can block everyone out." For the first time in his memory her smile turns shy, "There's still a vestigial link with you, but it's merely anchoring me."

He nods himself also feeling out of place, "Glad I could help."

"What was that I saw?" she blurts, then her cheeks turn green as she blushes, "The currents, I mean? It was like a river flowing throughout the universe."

Macen's eyes went wide, "You saw it?" He shook his head, "Of course you saw it. You were using my senses. That's why I could hear all of those thoughts in the background."

"What was it?" she asks impatiently.

"There's no name for it that would make sense." He sighs, "They are the flow of probability. The best way of saying it is that they are the currents of life, luck, and misfortune."

She shook her head, "Does something or someone direct it?"

He shrugged, "Not that anyone has boasted of in millennia. Ancestors of mine claimed to have, but they were killed. The pursuit of directing the flows has been outlawed ever since."

"Sorta like expressing emotions on Vulcan." She commented.

"Which is why you don't often talk about your people. They've scorned you the way mine have me." She said bluntly.

Macen was growing increasingly uncomfortable, "They'd probably see it the other way around."

"Is that the way you see it?"

He knew he'd never pull of the lie, not now, "No. I think the knowledge should be explored and understood."

She stared at him for a moment longer then sighed, "I should probably rest now."

He nodded, "Probably."

"When are we pulling out?"

"While you sleep." He answered, grateful for the impersonal topic, "We need to get the _Ironclad_ back in time for her real crew to get back aboard."

"I'm not giving up my ship." She said defiantly.

"No one's asking you to." He assured her, "We'll be flying it back."

"Good." She said and slid under the covers.

He leaned over her and made sure she was all right, "Call me if you need anything."

She cast him a furtive glance, "You've already done more than I could ask."

He gave her a grin and left. After he was gone, she reflected on what else she'd seen in his mind. Behind the barrier had radiated a love unlike any she'd experienced since the death of her parents. It was accepting, and it was meant for her. The thought both thrilled and terrified her.

* * *

Macen returned to the cockpit and sat down at the Sensor station. His head whirled. Too many of his secret hopes and dreams had been touched upon and hinted at today. Most of these were matters that he rarely admitted his own concern over.

He shook his head smiled ruefully at himself. He'd seen the patters he'd never dared look at before. He and T'Kir were bound together. He just wondered what kind of connection it was meant to be.

_Don't go there_, he warned himself, _every time you do, it means trouble._

* * *

The _Ironclad_ and the _Delight _detached themselves from the Starfleet task force less than an hour later. Captain Roonik was fuming and demanding an investigation into Macen's decision to destroy the _Manticore_. After being rebuffed by Macen, he promised to pursue the matter with Starfleet Command. Macen sent no reply and ordered the two vessels under his care to proceed directly to Starbase 412.

* * *

Hours into the trip, a bleary eyed T'Kir arrived in the cockpit, "What did I miss?"

Macen grinned, "Not a whole lot. We're headed back to Starbase 412. All the pirates are under arrest. The captives are being treated and transported to guest quarters aboard the task force ships. T'Lis sends thanks from all of them to you."

T'Kir shook her head, "Dracas and the other two did more than I did."

"I doubt that." Macen discounted her deferment, "How's the head?"

She gave him weary smile, but one filled with warmth, "Better. For the first time in awhile, I seem to be in control of what filters through."

Macen was heartened by her report but still had concerns, "Why don't you get some more rest? It'll be a couple of hours before Grace and Radil need to be relieved."

T'Kir hesitated, "I don't know..."

Macen sighed, "T'Kir, in a few hours you'll be manning the helm. You need to be as rested as you can."

She reluctantly nodded agreement, "Call me when I'm needed."

"It'll be a pleasure." He remarked.

T'Kir was surprised to learn her co-pilot for her spell at the controls was Macen himself. He was quietly working at the Sensor station. She could occasionally feel him watching her. The attention embarrassed her and warmed her all at once.

She wished she knew his true feelings rather than the brief glimpse she'd basked in. She felt too awkward to simply ask. He certainly wasn't giving any obvious hints. She resigned herself to simply wrestling with her own fears and desires and letting things proceed on their own.

* * *

Two days later, she was grateful she'd opted for such a philosophical course. Macen hadn't given the slightest sign of his feelings over that period. He was kind and concerned. Those were things he'd been in the past.

As they mated with a docking collar, T'Kir was about ready to turn and demand answers from him. She also knew that would be a mistake. Macen had busied himself throughout their return trip with reports and preparations of some kind. Something was afoot and he was keeping it to himself.

Her first hint of what it could be came when several Starfleet Security officers met the team as they disembarked from the _Delight_. They promptly arrested Macen and told the others they were confined to the base for questioning. Radil and T'Kir had been on the verge of killing every member of the arresting party then Macen had reassured them everything was fine. He'd then dropped a ubiquitous statement concerning T'Kir's quarters.

She swiftly found the padd he'd left for her. After reading what it said, she knew why he'd remained silent up until this point. She would have killed him had he told her any earlier. As it was, she was plotting ways of exacting revenge when this was over.


	21. Chapter 21

272

Uprising

The Judge Advocate's investigation lasted a week. When it concluded, Macen was turned over to Admirals Nechayev and Drake for administrative punishment. Macen briefly wondered what strings Nechayev had pulled to keep him from a general court martial but decided he'd rather not know. As it was, he had enough worries wondering what would happen to the rest of his team after it was disbanded.

"Have a seat, _Commander_." Nechayev ordered with a grating edge as Macen entered the office set aside for her at the Starbase.

His demotion had been the first, immediate consequence of his actions. It didn't bother him all that much. He'd stayed at his current rank for over two decades and his promotion had been too recent for it him to have adjusted to it yet. As an opening gambit to display displeasure and set him at unease, it was a wasted effort.

Macen was uneasy enough. He'd still not been given any information regarding the fare of his team and he was beginning to smoulder. Drake appeared almost as irritated as Macen, a quiet rage underlying her every gesture. Nechayev appeared as cool and in control as ever, the master manipulator rotating pieces on play.

"As you know, the SID is founded on the idea of allowing their commanders unilateral action in the field." Her voice was stern as she launched into her topic without preamble, "But that doesn't mean they should violate the normal SOP in front of dozens of witnesses."

"So it's not Spencer's death that bothers you, it's that we got seen accomplishing it." Macen observed dryly, "We both know public trial would have done nothing but embarrass the service and do nothing to redress what he'd done."

"The man was a stain upon Starfleet's honour." Nechayev replied, "And a trial would have been avoided to prevent unneeded sensationalism among the press."

Her eyes flashed, "_But _it would have been interesting to know how he eluded the normal checks and balances for so long and if he had any accomplices within the ranks."

"Ask your friends in Section 31." Macen retorted, "I'm sure they know."

Nechayev sighed even as every muscle in Drake's body clenched, "Brin, Section 31 is far more concerned with external threats than internal ones. But since we're on the topic, you are aware of the fact this Division is in fact Starfleet's response to the secrecy of Section 31?"

Macen spoke slowly as Drake shifted uneasily in her seat, "We were told we're meant to replace Section 31."

Macen watched lines form around Drake's face from her muscles straining as Nechayev answered, "Supplement, yes. Replace, no."

"What the hell?" the exasperated question escaped Macen's lips before he had time to think about it.

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Nechayev's lips, "Section 31 was created by the Starfleet Charter. It won't simply fade because of recent notoriety. Revelations during the war indicated to Command that certain elements of Section 31 were operating outside their intended parameters. This is why the Special Investigations Division was created. Section 31 is being restricted to their original mission and you and your fellow agents will be Starfleet's special response to unusual situations."

"We're Section 31 with a pretty face for the press releases." Macen observed tartly.

Nechayev shrugged, "That's not how I would have phrased it, but the gist is the same."

It was Macen's turn to sigh in resignation, "So what happens now?"

"Now," Nechayev replied sharply, "I'll be accepting your request for retirement."

Macen looked stunned, "What?"

"You don't honestly expect to escape this one unscathed, do you Brin?"

"No." he admitted.

Nechayev allowed herself a thin smile; "It's not as bad as you seem to think. I still want you as an agent for SI and the SID in particular."

"Then why...?"

"The resignation?" she completed for him, "It's simple really, to grant you the freedom of action you'll take upon yourself anyway. You've remained a constant as Starfleet has changed around you. By removing Starfleet's regulations from your considerations, you remove your responsibility to adhere to them, which you won't anyway. It's not as though this can come as a surprise after the remarks you made to Admiral Drake here."

"In the end, this becomes the most equitable solution for all involved." She said with obvious satisfaction.

"And how, exactly, will this work?" he inquired somewhat sceptically.

Drake took over the explanations; "You'll retire at your current rank with full benefits and pensions. Starfleet Intelligence will establish a small freetrader company in your name. We'll provide you a ship and Letters of Marque granting you license as a privateer, private security agent, and investigator. Any members of your team that wish to accompany you are free to do so. For active Starfleet officers, that will involve a transfer to the inactive reserves but their commissions will be kept active in the promotion rosters. For your non-Starfleet associates, they will be corporate employees."

"Will I be free to refuse assignments?"

"Of course." Nechayev interjected, "But since we'll be providing a stipend and your ship, you probably won't want to do that very often."

"I see." He replied softly, analysing the implicit threat; "A counterproposal then, the ship is mine."

"Of course." Nechayev replied blithely.

"No, Admiral." Macen corrected, "The ship is mine in fact as well as name. I won't have the freedom of mobility and the options of choice you're promising unless I have the ship."

He paused an offered a wry smile, "Consider it an investment in case I opt to retire into mere surveying and scouting again."

Nechayev glanced towards Drake who gave her the barest nod in return, "Very well. Admiral Drake will see to the paperwork."

"So, when do I see this ship?"

Nechayev's brow rose at his cynical tone, "The ship is awaiting you in the Intelligence berth of the Utopia Planetia Yards."

"Had this planned for a while, did you?"

"The ship is a scoutship outwardly identical to that captained by your friend stranded in the Delta Quadrant with the starship _Voyager_."

"Chakotay." Macen murmured in remembrance of the Maquis captain and his crew.

"We acquired and adapted the vessel in preparation for an operation against the Maquis." Nechayev explained without inflection, mindful of Macen's sympathies, "The Dominion struck before the operation went into effect."

"Since that time," Drake resumed the explanative duties again; "the ship has awaited a mission and a crew."

"Sounds like you've found both." Macen conceded after a moment's deliberation, "Do you have her specs?"

Drake leaned forward to hand him a padd, "I don't think you'll have any complaints."

Macen's eyes widened as he began perusing the data, "I don't think I will."

After Macen departed, Drake gave Nechayev a weary look, "Did you really think Macen wouldn't figure it out Alynna?"

Nechayev sighed, "No, I knew he would. Just as he knew I'd figure out the meaning behind his cryptic comments to you. Dammit! He needs to learn when not to stick his nose into something."

"I think all the help Section 31 provided on this one was a major clue." Drake replied sarcastically.

"That wasn't my call." Nechayev grumped, "I asked them to keep an eye out in case the team needed help. I never knew they'd take action on their own."

"When haven't they? They're out of control."

"They're the most trusted operatives in Starfleet." Nechayev protested, "They're the guardians we've selected to act when we can't?"

"Have you ever heard the expression, 'who watches the watchmen'?" Drake asked softly, "I think it's a point you might want to ponder right about now."

With that said, Drake slid out of her chair and left the room. Nechayev didn't move for another fifteen minutes. When she did finally move, it was to swear violently. She then rose and departed with an expression carved in stone.

* * *

During this time, T'Kir also found a moment to place a discreet call to Lisea Danan. The Trill's features lit up in a self-satisfied smile when she recognised T'Kir.

"So, you finally figured it out?" Lisea's tone was pleasant and teasing.

T'Kir's apprehension drowned in confusion at the other woman's reply, "Figured what out?"

"You're feelings for Brin and his subsequent feelings for you." Lisea replied matter-of-factly.

T'Kir blinked in shock despite herself, "You've known?"

Lisea laughed lightly, "For years. I was probably the first one to figure it all out."

"How?" T'Kir blurted. "When? I mean... I'm so confused." She admitted ruefully.

"It wasn't hard." Lisea informed her, "Why d'you think he put up with your antics so long? Part of it was the challenge, sure, but there was also the fact he enjoyed the mental contest between you two."

"But what about you?" T'Kir asked, head whirling.

"We found each other at a time when both of us needed someone. We helped each other through some difficult days." T'Kir knew that description was an understatement, "Part of it was general loneliness and another part was dealing with shadows of the past. For me, that meant dealing with a new symbiot whose previous host had fantasised for years about a fling with Brin Macen."

T'Kir almost giggled, "Really?"

Lisea grinned wryly, "Between my own fascination with the man and those impulses, I didn't stand a chance."

"So, why'd you..?" T'Kir's question died unasked.

"Why'd I leave?" Lisea finished, "There were a lot of reasons. We'd drifted apart over the time spent apart during the war. Although I'd disagreed with Starfleet over the DMZ policies and their treatment of the Maquis, it was mostly the passions of youth."

"You're not that old." T'Kir observed dryly.

"No." Lisea admitted with a laugh, "But I'm a scientist. I never wanted to be a soldier. Neither did Brin, but he's willing to fight battles I'd rather avoid."

"The short and skinny of it is that we were no longer good for each other." Lisea admitted with a sigh, "Every discussion became a battle. Rather than meeting each day together, we faced it separately and then argued over whose way of dealing with it was correct."

"But, where...?" T'Kir faltered.

"Where does that leave you?" Lisea seemed to be reading _her _mind, "It leaves you in love with Brin, and he with you."

"But how do you know that?" T'Kir asked plaintively.

Lisea laughed again, "He'd sooner die then admit, even to himself. He's stubborn that way."

"Then how d'you know its true?"

"Because I know _him_." Lisea's answer rang with utter conviction, "You keep him from forming rigid patterns. He's used to being the unpredictable one, but you keep him sharp. You think in ways he couldn't conceive of. Most of all, you have the ability to cross some bridge that he won't talk about, but I know I couldn't."

_The currents!_ T'Kir realised with a start, _That and the mental bonds like he had with Arinae. Lisea couldn't provide those, but I can._

Lisea's eyes narrowed as she studied T'Kir's reaction, "I see you know what I'm talking about."

T'Kir opened her mouth, whether to explain or protest she never knew for Lisea cut her off, "Whatever it is, I'm glad to see that someone can finally meet those needs."

She sighed before continuing, "Now, you're going to have to be patient, which isn't your strong suite. He'll admit this all to himself eventually, but it could take awhile. All you can do is encourage him to realise it a little sooner. That and accept the fact that subtlety won't work here."

"When d'you think I should confront him?"

"Give it awhile yet." Lisea urged, "Whatever it is you've discovered, he's probably just discovered it too. Let him dwell on it for awhile. It'll start to haunt him soon enough and then he'll be ripe for the picking."

A coy smile tugged at T'Kir's lips, "You're a sly one."

"And don't ever forget it." Lisea warned, "Good luck to you, _both _of you."

T'Kir reached a hand towards the screen, "That means a lot."

* * *

Epilogue

Unsurprisingly, or perhaps more surprisingly, the entire team opted to stay together. They were all crammed together in a runabout on its way to Utopia Planetia. The shuttle was returning to the massive shipyard complex orbiting Mars for an upgrade package. The SID team had been allowed to pilot it in lieu of waiting for the daily shuttle.

Grace handled the helm while T'Kir sat beside her at Ops. Macen manned the Science console and Dracas occasionally tapped a control on the Engineering console he sat in front of. Daggit, Kort and Radil lounged in the tiny crew compartment at the rear of the craft. An occasional crash and din reminded the cabin crew of their compatriots in the back.

"Does anyone want to check on them?" Grace asked after the fourth raucous outburst.

Macen swivelled away from the screen he was reading and gave her a dry look, "Do you really want to know what they're up to?"

"Well, ah, I…" Grace hemmed.

"I really don't want to know." T'Kir said, shooting her friend a warning glare; "I don't think my universal paradigm can afford to be warp shifted without a deflector array right now."

Grace returned her attention to her helm controls but occasionally muttered under her breath. T'Kir and Macen exchanged knowing smirks before she flicked her eyes towards Dracas. The engineer had not spoken once since boarding the craft. Macen shrugged and received a strident clearing of her throat in reply.

Macen swivelled his seat to face Dracas but the engineer broke his long silence without ever turning from his instruments, "I appreciate the concern but I really don't want to talk about it. If and or when I do, I'll let you know."

Macen faced T'Kir and shrugged, Grace intervened by announcing; "We're here."

Utopia Planetia's traffic control system hailed to challenge them as to their purpose and destination. Once the controller accepted their identity, docking proceeded swiftly. Less than thirty minutes later, they disembarked from the runabout and were being led to a shuttlepod that would transfer them to the Special Projects yards. No one commented on their civilian attire, yielding a great deal of information of how often they saw covert operatives pass through.

A fresh-faced ensign met them at the pod's docking collar, "Are you the Outbound Venture's crew?"

Macen managed not to smirk at the ensign's relief as Macen nodded assent, "Thank goodness. I've been running behind schedule and was afraid I'd missed you. The Commodore would bust me back to ferrying parts to Io and back if you'd filed a complaint."

"Made that many enemies already?" Macen inquired with amusement.

The ensign grinned, "Only one but when he's also your CO, it doesn't help matters any."

"What did you do?" Grace asked with undisguised glee, "Pull a barrel roll inside drydock or what?"

The ensign's cheeks coloured slightly as he cleared his throat, "Nothing like that, miss. I just happened to… well, they found me… and…"

"I take it you were found in a… potentially compromising position." Macen offered.

"Yessir." The ensign affirmed gratefully.

"And you weren't alone?"

"Nossir." The ensign breathed guiltily.

"And this someone is rather close to the Commodore?" Macen asked as lights dawned in Grace's eyes.

"Daughter, sir." The ensign said with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Well, carry on and be more discreet in the future." Macen offered, "We won't file a complaint if you get us there in one piece. I can't make that promise if we arrive piecemeal, so I'd be sure to get us there intact."

The ensign blinked and then a dopey grin spread across his face as he comprehended the remark, "If you'd like to get underway?"

* * *

The ensign's piloting skills were obviously far superior to his proficiency at clandestine romantic liaisons. The Special Projects Yard was located within the Service Vessel Decommissioning Centre. Starfleet maintained three centres tasked with stripping classified materials and weaponry from retiring starships, surveyors, runabouts, and shuttles. The ships would then be transferred to private interests, such as colonies and research organisations, or transferred to one of two "graveyard" sectors for storage until being purchased or scrapped.

The Decommissioning Centre also accepted the occasional contract to upgrade civilian vessels or refit them for Federation contracts. Working under the pretence of upgrading vessels, the appropriately named SPYards projects effectively hid in plain sight. The pod transited the bulk of the Centre at a leisurely pace. Shortly after entering the SPYards, the ensign pointed out their intended vessel.

Demonstrating a fine sense of the dramatic, he brought the pod towards the Yards docking collar in an arc that rounded about their new ship. Outwardly, she was a _Ju'day_-class scout dating from the earlier part of the century. The Maquis had relied heavily upon these ships and their smaller courier class cousins. Starfleet still used its cousin, the _Peregrine-_classfighter. The couriers still frequented colonial regions, seeing as they remained the most inexpensive means to swiftly deliver goods and data.

Although the scoutship models had been popular amongst private surveying firms and prospectors, Starfleet never adopted them. This accounted for their shorter production life since supply soon outstripped demand. Private firms also found them difficult to maintain over long periods owing to advances in other designs that allowed them to reduce on-board personnel requirements. In the end, the Maquis and other colonist groups acquired most of the remaining hulls and converted them to privateers.

The raptor-like design retained both the sleek and menacing features of its biological inspirers. Forward swept wings encapsulated the warp nacelles recessed within the hull. Each wing mounted a phaser cannon in addition to the strip arrays housed within the hull. Torpedo launchers protruded just forward of the leading edge of the warp nacelles and aft microtorpedo launchers were housed to either side of the impulse exhaust.

The arrowhead shaped forward section, housing the bridge, was held in the docking clamps securing it to the port facility. A gantry extended forth to establish an access umbilical between the station and the ship. Everyone crowded together towards the front of the pod, eliciting a laugh from the pilot. Chagrined, the team gave him room so he could align the pod for docking.

The ensign gave them a cheery farewell as they disembarked and headed for their ship's docking port. Another officer awaited them. She wore Lieutenant's insignia and Engineering departmental colours. As a Benzite, she also wore a methane emitter to enable her to comfortably withstand an oxygenated atmosphere. Unfortunately, as T'Kir whispered in Grace's ear, her gold uniform blouse did nothing for her azure complexion.

"Captain Mackin?" she asked.

T'Kir stifled a giggle as Macen's eyebrow rose in annoyance, "That's _Macen_, like stonemason."

The Benzite nodded in acknowledgement but still seemed utterly stumped as to what he was referring to, "Sorry, sir. I have here the papers transferring ownership of this vessel to you. As requested, she has been licensed and registered in the Federation rolls to Outbound Ventures, Inc. She is the _NDR 35117 SS Eclipse_. All that is required at this point is for you to acknowledge and verify receipt of the vessel."

She thrust a padd towards Macen and he accepted it with a wary eye, "You don't mind if I review this do you?"

"I would expect you to."

Macen began his review of the data with a shake of his head. He could've sworn he heard T'Kir stifling a snicker. He quickly ran a search for loopholes or stipulations inserted by either Drake or Nechayev that would allow them to seize the vessel later. Finding none, he applied his thumb to the sensor and authorised the necessary paperwork submissions.

He handed the padd back to the lieutenant, "Here you go."

The engineer then inspected the padd, as though trying to see of Macen had altered the text any. Macen rolled his eyes as her head bobbed up and down as she scrolled through the text. T'Kir looked as though she were undergoing a seizure in her rather unsuccessful attempt to contain her mirth. The rest of the team, with the exception of Radil, was just getting anxious to inspect their new ship.

"Everything appears to be in order." The Benzite agreed.

"Finally." Dracas muttered.

"If you would gather your belongings and follow me." The lieutenant commanded politely.

Since no one had anything larger than a duffel, it was an easy chore. Macen wondered if the officer had been part of a marching band or drill team during her stint at the Academy. She seemed rather enthusiastic about maintaining a precise stride. He heard Daggit murmur something about "frog marching" under his breath.

No sooner had they entered the ship than the lieutenant whirled unexpectedly and began loudly describing their surroundings as she pointed in the indicated direction, "Now that we're aboard, it's best to begin by explaining that this ship contains three decks. The ship itself has a length of 80 metres, thus making it 10 metres shorter than the typical _Raven_-class vessel that has largely supplanted this ship class. We are now standing on Deck One, just aft of the Bridge module. Deck One also contains the Captain's Office, a Science Lab, the Sickbay, a Conference Room and the personnel transporter. There is a lift access at each end of the ship, the aft lift accessing the Engineering Room."

"Deck One also possesses two lavatories which include sonic showers. Each deck possesses identical facilities in addition to those found in Sickbay." She announced.

"What about the quarters?" Grace asked in a slightly alarmed voice.

"I shall explain that subsequently as I describe Deck Two." The Benzite replied coldly, "Deck Two contains the maintenance and control access points for the forward and aft torpedo magazines and launchers. The navigational deflector array is also most easily serviced on this deck. Crews' quarters are found on this deck as well as the galley, recreation lounge and upper level of Engineering. Engineering takes up one third of the area of both Decks Two and Three. Both Decks provide access directly to the Engine Room as well as the lifts to other decks."

"There are sixteen crew berthing compartments. The Captain and First Officer's quarters are twice size of the rest of the quarters. They are also the only ones equipped with private lavatory facilities." She ignored the stunned stares of the team as she continued her description, "Six of the remaining berths are configured single occupancy. The remaining eight berths are fitted with bunk beds in order to accommodate two occupants."

"Deck Three contains the Brig, Armoury, Cargo Bays and Stores in addition to the rest of the Engine Room compartment." The lieutenant hurled headlong to the conclusion of her presentation, "All quarters are equipped with beverage replicators. Meals must be obtained from the galley replicators. The Bridge, Sickbay, Lab, Engineering, Office and Brig are also fitted with refreshment replicators in addition to any other replicating units they may possess."

"Any questions?" the cheeriness of her query belied the dull monotone with which she had delivered her verbal tour.

"Did the provisions and equipment I requested arrive?" Macen asked, breaking the stunned silence.

"Yes." Came the clipped answer, "All requested materials have already been transferred aboard and placed in their appropriate storage areas."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Macen replied, refusing to acknowledge the huffy tone in the Starfleet officer's voice, "I'm sure you have other duties to attend to."

"I certainly do." She replied with an attitude that her time had been wasted on insufferable fools. She pushed past the SID team milling about in the corridor and headed through the docking umbilical.

"That was certainly an experience." Daggit mused after a moment's silent pause.

The nervous tension broke and Dracas demanded, "Can we see the ship now?"

After sharing a laugh at the childlike urgency in their engineer's the team moved in unison to the bridge. The door slid open to reveal something never seen aboard this class of ship before. It was as though Starfleet had taken the bridge of a _Defiant_-class starship and dropped it into the scout. Grace rushed forward and plopped herself behind the flight controls.

"Amazing" Dracas muttered as he headed for the Engineering station mounted in the bulkhead to the left of the centrally located Conn. He activated the display and began scrolling through the data he'd requested. At the station beside his, Daggit and Radil were inspecting the Tactical station. Kort excused himself to familiarise himself with the Sickbay.

T'Kir moved to the station to the right of the Conn. Typically, a _Defiant _style bridge boasted a Science station here. On this craft, the station was an Operations Management console. The normal auxiliary Tactical station to her right was instead a Mission Specialist and Library computer post. Macen ran his fingers across its surface.

"Hey," T'Kir's voice jutted him from his reverie, "that's not yours. _That _is."

She nodded towards the chair located in the centre of the area. The Command chair retained the two control panels to either side of it that had become so popular with the _Defiant_-class designers. Macen studied it for a moment and then shook his head. He smiled as he saw her puzzled reaction.

"This is my area of expertise." He confided in a low voice, "I'm more comfortable here."

She pondered his words for a moment then shrugged, "Maybe, but for now, we need you in the other chair."

Macen sighed, "I know."

"Ah ha!" Dracas' outburst caught everyone by surprise, "Because of the comparable dimensions, several aspects of the _Defiant_-class escort type have been incorporated into the ship. These aspects include, but are not limited to: The Bridge, the Engine room, the pulse phaser cannons, the Sickbay, personnel quarters, the mess, the Security office/Armoury and the Brig."

Dracas looked up from his reading, "My God! I have to get to the engine room!"

The sheer manic delight on his face as he rushed out was enough to alleviate Macen's concerns for his engineer for now. Dracas missed Daggit's, "Pulse phasers? All right!"

"I wonder of this thing still manoeuvres like a bat out of hell?" Grace could be heard wondering aloud.

Macen glanced towards T'Kir, "Want to go stake a claim on some quarters before the rush is on?"

She nodded vigorously, "Out! Before they figure out we're missing."

T'Kir took the quarters alongside Macen's. She was slightly miffed his were twice the size of hers and had its own restroom. She shrugged it off, knowing that brooding about it wouldn't change anything. _Then again, it might get the bulkhead between our quarters removed, _she mused. She warned herself not to dwell on that topic for any length of time.

Not having much to unpack, she'd finished already. Bored, she headed for Macen's quarters. She toggled the door chime and waited a moment before being granted access.

"Hey." Macen grunted in greeting. T'Kir stared in undisguised disbelief. Somehow he'd managed to get a cube reader in his room. She wondered how he'd fit it in his luggage.

"Where'd you get the reader?" she demanded.

"Ship's stores." He replied, then seeing her uncomprehending expression elaborated with, "Remember that equipment I asked our not so friendly tour guide about?"

"It's entertainment cubes?"

He shrugged, "Some of it. There are enough readers for every cabin, the Sickbay, the CO's office and the Science lab. Most of its surplus uniforms and Bajoran small arms."

"Uniforms?" she asked sceptically.

He nodded, "Starfleet's been stockpiling the things like mad for over a century as they've kept fiddling with the uniform. I put in word with Drake that if certain items were available that they would probably be useful to us."

"And Bajoran small arms?" her voice retained its dubious tone.

"Hand phasers and rifles." He answered cheerfully, "All our tricorders and communicators should be of Bajoran design as well."

"Why?"

"We're familiar with them after our time with the Maquis, they're more recent models than the Starfleet surplus out there and I'd rather deal with Bajorans than the Ferengi any day."

"True." She conceded at last with a smile, "So what about this ship's name? Was that your idea?"

Macen nodded, "I thought it would be appropriate."

"And the fact the _Nova_-class ship who's command you turned down to join the Maquis bore the same name has no bearing in this decision?" she teased.

"Of course not." He grinned.

"You need to learn how to lie better." She laughed.

"Maybe you can teach me." He suggested.

"Hey!"

He rose and approached her, "Don't go off your meds again."

"I won't." she sighed.

He tapped the end of her nose with his finger, "You'd better not be lying to me."

"Thus beginneth the first lesson?" she inquired hopefully.

"No." he replied sternly, "I need you here. I don't think I can do this without you."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

She suddenly hugged him fiercely. He returned the hug affectionately. After a moment, they parted and T'Kir wore a pensive expression. When it remained after several heartbeats, Macen inquired as to her thoughts.

"So what is our mission again?"

"Merely to save the universe from itself." He answered with a laugh.

"Oh. You're right. You need me."

He embraced her again and she smiled in contentment. A year ago, her life had been bereft of purpose and she'd been isolated from those she cared for. Now she amongst those that meant the most to her and she was making a difference again. No matter what life threw at her, she was ready to face it.


End file.
